


Courting Disaster.

by pekeleke



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Complete, Courtship, M/M, Romance, WIP, multi-chaptered
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-27 15:27:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 74,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pekeleke/pseuds/pekeleke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For once in his life Harry Potter has a plan. A carefully plotted plan to help him conquer the heart of an extremely reluctant Severus Snape, only... conquering a suspicious ex-spy isn't for the fainthearted and soon Harry finds himself -quite literally- courting disaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have NOT uploaded this particular story of mine -or any others- to goodreads. All my work is available here for free. Please do not redistribute my fanfiction on other archives or sites such as goodreads without my express permission. Thank you :)

**Title** : **Courting Disaster.**

**Rating** : NC-17.

**Author** : pekeleke

**Word** **Count** :1558.

**Warnings** : None.

**Disclaimer** : Don't own these characters. No money is being made out of this work.

**A/N 1:** I want to dedicate this particular fic to Delia Cerrano, who is the kind of wonderful reader and reviewer who never tires of reading -sometimes even more than once- the shenanigans of my particular version of the boys.

I don't know how many times she has expressed a desire to read a story featuring the gradual dismantling of Severus' defenses through romantic courtship, so I thought I should indulge her for once and attempt to finally write this dynamic for her. Here is my take on this particular trope then, Delia. I do hope you enjoy it as much as I relished the challenge of coming up with this story-line for you. :D

**Summary:** For once in his life Harry Potter has a plan. A carefully plotted plan to help him conquer the heart of an extremely reluctant Severus Snape, only... conquering a suspicious ex-spy isn't for the fainthearted and soon Harry finds himself -quite literally- courting disaster.

******A/N 2:** **** Now you can download this story on **********PDF********** format at **[rue16.](http://rue16.com/readwtk.php?mxid=381&key=PEKELEKEc078ace9cab038237fb8441025308efa)**

_**Courting Disaster.** _

**Chapter 1.**

The pub is crowded.  Noisy.  Perfect.  
Despite his disappointing looks Severus Snape has no trouble snaring a sexual conquest whenever he's in the mood and tonight, of all nights, he is definitely in the mood.

He is feeling each and every one of the 45 miserable years he is celebrating tonight.  Seating in splendid solitude in the darkest corner of the most infamous gay bar that Knocturn Alley has to offer with nothing more substantial for company than another shot of the cheap Firewhisky they sell here he feels exactly like the giant failure that he is. 45 years of age and he is still alone.  Still a nobody.  Still a forgotten, forgettable, pariah.

“Happy birthday—bah!”  He mumbles under his breath for the hundredth time as he contemplates the wisdom of ordering one last shot before abandoning his comfortably dark corner in pursuit of the company that lured him here in the first place.  He's certainly drunk enough to have sent his usual reticence packing and the place has been filling steadily with a veritable throng of young fellows on the lookout for a bit of harmless fun.  His window of opportunity has finally opened and he'll be damned before he allows himself to waste the rest of his evening on the maudlin contemplation of how much his life actually sucks.

Abandoning his table with a resolute air, he strolls regally across the crowded room, totally unaware of the fact that the oscillating light coming off the dance floor flits across his features with every step he takes, bathing his entire face alternatively in pale light and thick dark shadows that unveil the vision of a face that is both unashamedly harsh and starkly unlovely.

He understands that he can't be considered attractive under any circumstances, but there are certain types of men who, with a few pints in their belly, never fail to feel brave enough to approach him. These are men who consider themselves bold enough to attempt trying to tame the wild danger he exudes like a dark aura and, although Severus sometimes wonders why he usually attracts that particular type of drunk, he's never been able to explain the bizarre fact.

“Stupid Gryffindor wannabes and disenchanted Hufflepuffs the lot of them, most probably.  And dimwitted to boot if they really imagine that I could ever be 'tamed' by a half-drunk dunderhead.”  He mumbles under his breath, smiling encouragingly at a wide-eyed would-be-partner while his wavering mind remembers the explanation that some long-forgotten conquest whispered once against his neck in the back room of this very establishment.  
  
 _'Whatever brings them to me is their own business, isn't it?  I have no need to feel guilty for using their own gullibility for my benefit.'_ He decides in the next second, directing a scorching look towards the wide-eyed stranger and feeling his entire chest warm with relieved satisfaction when the man takes the first couple of stumbling steps in his direction.  _'That was unusually fast.  I should be out of_ _this hell-hole_ _in the next fifteen minutes, then.'_

“Happy birthday, professor.”  Someone grabs him from behind in the next second, literally breathing those three words against the back of his shoulder and Severus would have had to be a lot drunker than he is to be unaware of the identity of his unwelcome assailant.

“Potter...  Get your damned hands off me.  You are scaring away properly good company.”

Potter laughs.  The sound is soft and breathy, falling against the very tips of his long hair in a series of small puffs that feel somehow more intimate than the touch of the determined hands that are still holding his robe-covered forearms.  
“The guy in the soft, gray shirt?  He is not even good-looking, Severus!”

That dismissive little comment rattles him enough to push the Gryffindor as far away from him as he can manage.  He turns around sharply, frowning so ferociously at the heroic Savior Of The Wizarding World that he hears a frightened gasp or two coming from the dancers that surround them.  
“I'm not good-looking, either, and that doesn't make me any less horny than you, Potter.  It doesn't mean that I should head back home and embrace a life of goddamned celibacy while the rest of you, paragons of beauty, get on with the business of satisfying your urges.  I don't have to be attractive to have mind-blowing sex and neither does he.”

He turns around blindly, thoroughly disgusted now with himself for bothering to even address Potter's thoughtless comment, and is about to take an absolutely infuriated step away when the best seeker in England grabs him by the wrist, pinning him to the spot against his will.  
“I'm sorry.  That was vile jealousy speaking.  I've been sitting at the bar for a while now, trying to come up with a good enough excuse to walk up to your table, and I panicked when I saw you suddenly stroll away from it.”

Severus can't make any sense of that rather strange apology, but his mind is pleasantly fuzzy and he isn't worried enough to force himself to analyze the obscure inner workings of Potter's crazy mind.  
“You, the fearless Savior himself, _panicked_.  Right.”  He agrees halfheartedly with that odd statement in the hope that humoring the brat will allow him get rid of the Gryffindor all the faster.  His wide-eyed stranger has halted his approach altogether, likely intimidated by the fact that Severus seems to have caught the attention of the damned Boy-Who-Lived and he knows that it's imperative that he sets himself free from Potter's unwelcome presence in the next couple of seconds if he is to have any chance at all of bagging that particular bed-partner.  “It was great talking to you, Potter, but I'm awfully busy right now.  So, if you'll excuse me, I'll...”

Potter's bright emerald eyes flash with puzzling anguish.  His head swivels clearly to their left, checking out the now completely still figure of the stranger who is still standing in watchful immobility at the very edge of the dance floor and a small, bitter snarl explodes from his livid lips.  
“I bet the bloke can't believe his damned good luck.”

Severus frowns, belatedly rattled by the inexplicable ferociousness that has appeared in that usually friendly visage.  
“Excuse me?”

Potter grabs him by the wrist in a rather frantic motion.  He looks intense and determined, driven by some sort of angry urgency that Severus' alcohol-blunted senses find impossible to interpret.  
“Listen to me: I'll give you mind-blowing sex, if that's what you truly want, Severus.  You don't have to settle for a stranger tonight, of all nights.  You can have somebody who knows you.  Someone who has been inside your head and 'seen' you, really seen you.  You can have someone who _wants_ to be with you.  Someone who will whisper your given name as orgasm crashes over him.  Someone who knows that today is your birthday and that you are lonely.  So lonely, Severus.  You can have a man who is willing to hold you tonight until you fall asleep in his arms.  A man who is willing to gift you the beautiful illusion of... love.”

Severus gapes.  His mind reels, unable to comprehend this utterly bizarre turn of events.  His dark eyes rake over Potter and his pale cheekbones flush with the uncomfortable awareness that he finds the man attractive.  Potter is centerfold material, after all.  Has been so quite a few times in recent years, in fact.  Ever since he became the most successful seeker to ever play in the United Kingdom he's been considered something of a sex-god.  He's left behind his heroic past to become an incredibly successful sportsman in his own right.  He is a talented flyer.  A committed team-member.  An incredibly appealing young man who's fit, friendly and usually discriminating when it comes to choosing a bed partner.

For many years now Potter has been the embodiment of every gay wizard's dream catch.  Of every homosexual's mother dream son-in-law.  He is every sleazy pub-crawler's fantasy bed-partner come to life and Severus knows in his heart of hearts that the brat shouldn't be here.  He doesn't belong in places like this.  He doesn't frequent them or even enjoys them, as far as anyone can tell.  So what in the bloody hell is Harry Potter doing here of all places?  Why is he making this kind of incredible offer today, of all days, to a man like himself?

“I don't think I'm drunk enough to cope with hearing you offer me sex so out of the blue, Potter.  I'm deeply honored by your unexpected proposition, but...”

A bold and cheeky grin blooms across the ex-Gryffindor's lips.  He looks breathtakingly gorgeous.  All enthusiasm and dimples and a genuine, honest-to-goodness smile.  He takes a single step closer, raising up on his tiptoes to whisper softly against Severus' reddening ear:  
“Don't turn me down just yet, please.  If you need another Firewhiskey to forget your precious inhibitions then I'm willing to offer as many toasts in honor of your birthday as it takes to make you start seeing double.  Take a chance on me, Severus.  You know that I'll never, ever, hurt you, don't you?  You've got nothing to lose...”

 


	2. Chapter 2

  
**Chapter 2.  
  
**  
Harry Potter is leaning with apparent casualness against the left post at the foot of his richly carved four-posted bed, looking down towards his mattress with shadowed green eyes.  Despite his deceptively relaxed and laid-back posture, his heart is pounding a mile a minute.  His throat feels dry and is painfully constricted even though his slightly kiss-swollen lips can't stop smiling at the vision before him: a sight that fills his entire being with the kind of wild exhilaration that he's been waiting a veritable eternity to have a chance to enjoy.

Severus Snape is tangled in his bed sheets in all his relaxed, long-limbed glory.  Beautiful dark hair covers that beloved and stern profile, shielding it from Harry's thoughtful scrutiny for the time being.  A slender and mostly hairless chest, shifts in the rhythmic ebb and flow that is so characteristic of deep sleep, gracing Harry's usually empty bed with it's pale, breathtaking beauty.

Severus' body is a rather startling mix of wiry strength and old scars that Harry can't bear to look away from.  A number of small, purpling marks are beginning to bloom across that heartbreakingly marred neck and all along the prominent line of the Slytherin's collarbones and shoulders.  There is something thoroughly satisfying in the knowledge that those tiny, lip-shaped hickeys are the work of his own lips, of his own unbridled passion for this impossibly difficult creature, and the idea that he has finally found a way to plant himself firmly in Severus Snape's life makes him smile toothily, giving him such a ridiculously huge sense of accomplishment that his chest expands with unchecked joy.

Harry is aware of the fact that his tactics so far haven't been fair to the Slytherin.  He realizes that he timed his offensive perfectly.  Striking at a moment when he'd known that Severus was bound to feel particularly vulnerable, willing to set aside his usual wary reserve in order to enjoy a single night of comforting illusion.  But he also knows this man's heart like the back of his own hand.  He understands both Severus' deepest fears and the reasons behind all that unapproachable formality that he uses like a repelling shield.  Harry has seen with his own eyes the nature of the hopes that used to fill that narrow and courageous chest, and has been mourning this wounded creature's long-abandoned dreams for a very long time now.

Love...  Severus craves the emotion like the Dark Lord craved more power, yet he doesn't believe in his ability to inspire it any longer.  He doesn't actively seek it and is closed-off in every sense of the word to the very possibility of encountering it at this point in his life.

It has taken Harry years to realize both the true nature of his own sexuality and the identity of the man who could complete him.  He'd searched for his prince charming among skin-deep beauty, finding only warty toads hiding under the bright shimmer of eager caring.  He'd never settled for any of the bright-eyed, young hunks who chased after him in the hopes of becoming _'_ _The One and Only_ _love'_ of The-Boy-Who-Lived.  He'd never wanted submissive devotion, or brainless idolatry. He wanted substance, loyalty and integrity.  He wanted genuine affection.  He wanted beauty beyond his wildest dreams.

His coming out had been difficult at first, becoming plain and simply exhausting by the time someone had decided to use his unfortunate fame for the benefit of the Wizarding Homosexual Movement and turned him into the unwitting symbol of gay strength everywhere almost overnight.

Although homosexuality per-se isn't particularly rejected in the wizarding world it used to be generally understood that a gay wizard was slightly useless to their society, since he would not be reproducing, thus failing in his unspoken duty to expand the already waning magical population.

Having Harry Potter, of all people, step right out of everyone's idea of the stereotypical heterosexual hero to announce that he was not only gay, but also unwilling to ever marry a woman just for the sake of propriety, had given an unprecedented weight to the idea that there was no truth whatsoever behind the supposed 'weakness' that afflicted the magic of openly practicing homosexuals.

Things had gotten out of hand from then on.  There had been speeches and campaigning to be done.  A lot of oohing and aahing had gone on when he'd yielded to Hermione's need to fight for the under-dog and decided to accept the unexpectedly heavy mantle of a magically strong gay icon.  A number of unreasonable, archaic laws that still affected the rights of homosexual wizards, based on that very same assumption of magical fragility, had been overturned and modernized.  Using both his image and reputation as undeniable proof against their core assumptions.

He'd been too busy with life and work to pay too much attention to anything or anyone who wasn't included in his immediate circle of friends and professional acquaintances.  It hadn't helped at all that Severus had refused to return to Hogwarts after his trial.  He'd resigned from his position as the school's appointed Headmaster, shunned every offer he'd received to work for any of the Potions Laboratories that actively tried to head-hunt him, and abandoned the United Kingdom altogether in order to _'find peace'_.

It wasn't until Draco announced that he was marrying Ginny that Severus had returned.  Brought back home not by a sense of duty or the promise of the riches that he could still lay claim to, if he ever bothered to accept the position of Head of the Potions Research Department that St Mungo's was -literally- desperate to offer him.  No.  Severus Snape had returned home for Draco Malfoy and Draco Malfoy alone.  Love for his precious godchild had brought the old spy back to England three years after the end of the war and it had been at that point that Harry had finally realized why he'd never found the man who could complete him among the thousands of idiots who'd been pursuing him relentlessly since his coming out.

He'd never found the love of his life because the man had been out of his reach all along.  His heart had always been yearning for that very same intensity that had once put his teenage self under the thrall of his mysterious Half-blood Prince.  It had taken him one single look, one terribly awkward conversation, one ill-fated argument over some stupid topic that he can't even properly recall anymore to realize that he felt... alive... for the first time in years.  That he felt energized and dizzy with anticipation, breathless with the sort of physical awareness that was very clearly not being reciprocated in the slightest by the aloof creature who inspired it.

For a while he'd tried to forget the crazy notion that he might, just might, have developed a wild crush on his former potions professor.  He'd returned to the dating game with a vengeance, attempting to find himself a more suitable, frighteningly clever, dark haired would-be-lover.  But he'd failed to develop the deep attachment he craved.  He'd failed to find a replacement for Severus and, as their mutual closeness with both Draco and Ginny respectively kept throwing them both into increasingly frequent contact year after year, that vague initial awareness of desire had shifted inexorably into a powerful passion.

Harry has known for a while that his affection towards Severus is unlimited. It is both unbridled and viscerally instinctive.  It is the kind of emotion that could so very easily last throughout their lifetimes.  The kind that tells him he can't afford to let his dreams go without fighting for the chance to try making them real.

Severus is gay, too.  That one piece of knowledge, discovered almost by accident less than a year ago, has turned Harry's entire world upside down.  Gone is his grim determination to never reveal his own feelings to the man, to never make him feel uncomfortable in his presence, to respect the fact that there is nothing he could possibly offer him that may suit Severus' preferences.  Now he knows what he'd never realized before: Severus could be his.  They could be a couple.  They could so very easily find a way to love one another with the kind of genuine intensity they both crave, if only he manages to pull off his carefully devised plan.

Harry's heart is already engaged.  It was hopelessly deposited at Severus' forbidding feet a long time ago.  Now all he has to do is find a way to get past his beloved's extensive maze of self-protective barriers.  He has to make the wary man 'see' him as a romantic partner.  Has to burrow under Severus' skin and make him understand that all those dreams of home and hearth that he's given up for lost out of hopelessness could be well within his grasp.  They could become their very future, their very own version of that peskily elusive happily-ever-after.

He has to find a way into his wary potioneer's heart.  Has to earn a trust that has always been only skin-deep on Severus' part when it comes to him.  He has to show his stubborn Slytherin that there is more to Harry Potter than a famous, but brainless, athlete.  He has to charm a man who is going to distrust the very notion of being charmed because no one has ever bothered to take care of him in such a way before.

He has to attack Severus' self-protective cold formality with his own hopefully disarming devotion and hold on for dear life, no matter how hard or for how long Severus attempts to deny them the possibility of becoming finally closer.

Sex can lead to love.  Harry has seen it happen plenty of times.  A strictly sexual liaison could open the door to further intimacy between them.  Sex is often the beginning of most modern-day romances, anyway.  Harry knows that he has used Severus' fragility ruthlessly, but he hadn't had any other option. Taking advantage of a drunk man's desire to lose himself in the warm illusion of affection had ended up being the only door left for him to knock on, after every single casual invitation he'd issued to his stubborn Prince in the last few months had been viciously rejected on principle.

“I know I should be ashamed of myself, Severus.  I even know that you'll hate my guts for taking advantage of you, at least for a little while.  But I can not -will not- let you go without fighting for you this once.  I'm a warrior, you know?   And so are you.  We both deserve someone willing to fight for the right to be beside us.  We deserve each other.”  Harry's softly voiced explanation falls into the oppressive silence like a shaken little sigh.  His lips lose the faint smile that has been gracing them as the first rays of the raising sun finally break through the flimsy barrier of his delicate curtains.

He realizes that Severus won't be asleep forever.  Not with the kind of hangover he's most probably sporting.  There are things he needs to do before his very own grumpy version of sleeping beauty finally wakes.  He has a battleground to prepare.  A necessary explanation to polish.  A hangover potion to collect from the kitchen and a few key items of Severus' dark clothing to misplace.

It's time to retreat and plan his strategy while he still has the advantage of surprise in their upcoming skirmish.  He is up against the very best example of Slytherin cunning and there's only one possible way to conquer this particularly slippery snake.  He has to go for the heart.  He has to do so directly.  Bluntly.  Without leaving room for misunderstandings or misinterpretations of any kind.  He has to own up to his feelings and his plotting from the word go.  He has to slice his own shields open and expose his terrifying vulnerability to the scrutiny of his beloved, because Severus Snape is a man who will never fall for pretty little lies.  He won't fall for either half-truths or subtle mind games.  Severus will only fall for honesty.  He is an all-or-nothing sort of man and that means that only an all-or-nothing sort of love will tempt him into risking his fiercely guarded heart.

****  
  
**  
**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3.**

  
Severus wakes to the unpleasant brightness of an obscene amount of sunlight and the disorienting sound of kitchen utensils clattering about.  His eyes open to an unfamiliar bedroom while the tell-tale smell of mixed sweat and sex that is rising from the bed sheets tangled around his bare limbs surrounds him like a cloying shroud of regret.

His chest constricts with the sudden awareness that he has allowed himself to go through the horrible ordeal of letting some unknown man fuck him into the mattress beneath him and he finds the idea so distressing that his instinctive horror manages to mask the first signs of the terrible hangover that is now beginning to take over his frayed senses.

A powerful wave of nausea rises up the back of his throat in the next second and his dark eyes begin to water even as he flinches in pained reaction to the unbearably bright light.  He groans out loud in misery before clamping his mouth tightly shut once again, attempting to ride out his instinctive need to throw up. His stomach roils wretchedly and his temples start pounding with such savagery that he raises trembling fingertips to massage them in circles, trying in vain to coax some of the pain away in order to bring himself to some sort of useful physical condition.

He needs to find the strength to get up from this bed.  He needs to find first his wand and then his clothing.  He needs to determine the identity of whoever was clanking dishes somewhere in the house a mere second ago and find the right frame of mind to sail through the unbearable 'morning after' awkwardness that awaits him.  He also needs to try his best to bring back into focus his hazy recollections of last night and he needs to do all of that as soon as humanly possible in order to whisk himself back to safety before this damned hangover manages to kill him.  He needs to return home, raid his bathroom cabinet for the one potion that can take away all traces of his current agony, and attempt to forget that he's been so inexplicably stupid.

Gosh... he hates his blasted birthday with a passion bordering on fervor.  He is painfully aware of the fact that he only ever indulges in this sort of self-destructive behavior whenever he allows his own disproportionate sense of self-pity to get the better of him.  He can't believe that he is now forty-five years of age and still such a goddamned idiot.  He has behaved even more recklessly than usual, from the look of things.  Allowing himself to be whisked away to some stranger's house is plain and simply careless.  He hasn't risked more than a bathroom-stall tryst or a hurried dark-alley encounter in years.

“Here.  Take a dose of Hangover Potion before you even attempt drinking your coffee and you should be right as rain by the time you are done with your eggs, Severus.”

The unexpected voice startles him right out of his gloomy thoughts and his closed eyes snap open in shocked sync with his utterly embarrassing squeak of disbelief.  He has recognized the owner of that cheerful tone immediately and the dismay currently coursing through his every vein and muscle keeps him pinned to the mattress like a human-shaped lump.

“Po—Potter.”  The name abandons his lips in a sort of dazed whisper.  His voice sounds too hoarse for his liking and his mouth feels foul with the unmistakable aftertaste of undiluted alcohol.

Potter smiles at him calmly before placing the tray he's carrying on the nightstand and taking a seat on the edge of the rumpled bed, coming uncomfortably close to his rigid body.  Sudden awareness of his own state of undress hits Severus like a punch to the stomach and he cringes visibly where he lays, bringing Potter's forward motion to an abrupt and jarring halt.  Vibrant emerald eyes settle over him then, studying his pale face thoughtfully in the uncomfortably growing silence.

“I'm aware that you are probably feeling deeply embarrassed right now, Severus.  But there's no reason for you to be self-conscious.  Let's deal with your hangover first and then we can talk about this more calmly.  Take the potion, please.  I swear that it won't harm you.  It's actually one of your own.  Draco tells me that the small shield on the right side of the bottle is meant to inform the costumer of the brewer's identity.  You chose the old Prince emblem as your potioneer's signature, didn't you?  Nowadays I never buy anything in the apothecary unless it has your silver shield.”

Severus grabs the potion warily, studying the bottle as carefully as his pounding head allows him.  He doesn't even bother trying to hide the paranoid suspicion that fuels his actions when he uncorks the vial, turning it this side and that in the bright sunlight before reluctantly bringing it up to his prodigiously long nose and sniffing its contents without apology, only deciding to gulp it down after his thorough check is finally complete.  There are a number of ways of tampering with sealed potions and he is unfortunately familiar with each and every single one of them.  He has tainted plenty of bottles himself along the years, most of them on the Dark Lord's direct orders.

The brat smiles at him encouragingly, apparently unfazed by his obvious lack of trust and Severus blinks at him in utter confusion.  Hazy memories of last night are becoming increasingly clear and, although he can now recall having been approached by the Gryffindor at one point in the evening, he can scarcely believe that he managed to bag himself a man like Harry Bloody Potter, of all people.

“Tell me that we didn't...”  He falters, cringing visibly at the unwelcome realization that he can't even bring himself to finish that thoroughly embarrassing sentence.  He feels awkward beyond words, sitting on the blasted Savior's bed without a single stitch on while the athletic seeker gazes thoughtfully at him, safely shielded from the bitter shame of physical exposure by a faded pair of perfectly fitting muggle jeans and a simple white t-shirt that frames his toned body to maddening perfection.

As if reading his mind, Potter's hand lowers carefully towards the bed sheets, silently collecting huge fistfuls of the rumpled cloth before gathering it around the bare skin of his jutting hips with utter gentleness.  The soft cotton yields to the Gryffindor's manipulation, covering Severus' legs and lower abdomen demurely and causing a lump the size of Hogwarts to settle smack bang in the middle of his dangerously constricted windpipe.  His dark head lowers in utter shame, unfocused gaze settling with sightless awkwardness on the bony ridge that marks the spot where his own flimsily covered knees rest under the linen while he attempts to come to terms with the puzzling fact that Potter's shocking gentleness is making him feel threatened.

“I can't believe I was stupid enough to fall into bed with you, Potter.  There must be something I'm missing.  Do you have a room-mate?  A visitor from abroad?  A colleague who uses this place to keep his little sexual escapades secret from either friends or family?”  He forces himself to ask those questions, grimly determined to find out the real identity of the man to whom he'd so thoughtlessly granted free reign of his scrawny body while under the influence of what must had been a single shot short of alcohol poisoning.

Callused fingertips become bold enough to brush a wayward lock of his long hair away from his pale temple, looping it with truly breathtaking tenderness behind his reddening ear.  Then that disarmingly gentle hand traces a delicate path down the sharp lines of his painfully narrow jaw, burning a trail of sheer fire along his embarrassingly flushed face until it settles -quietly, but as firm as the metal gauntlet of an ancient suit of armor- just under the very tip of his lowered chin, forcing his face inexorably upwards until there's nothing else for him to do but look directly into the strangely intense expression that has appeared on the face of the Boy-Who-Lived.

Earnest green eyes clash with his own widened stare and Severus feels as if he is drowning in a veritable sea of unfamiliar and tempestuous waters.  The voice that he has always considered way too friendly and easy going to be taken seriously turns grave with solemnity for the first time in his memory as it informs him quite firmly:  
“There is no one here but us.  We made love last night, Severus, and it was the most beautiful experience of my life.”

For a blissfully short second he simply stares into Potter's eyes without registering the meaning of his words.  When they finally sink into his disconcerted mind he finds himself genuinely unable to understand what could have possibly driven him to actually open his legs for the man's entertainment, even if he'd somehow managed to accomplish the seemingly impossible feat of snaring the Savior's attention in the first place.

Then a single, dazzling memory slams into him like a cursed sledgehammer and he can literally feel the ghostly weight of arms -Potter's arms- surrounding him.  The Gryffindor spent all night long embracing him with the kind of loving warmth that no other person has ever bothered to give him before.  He remembers falling into exhausted sleep while being cradled like a priceless treasure against the heart of a man who is his moral and social better in every single way there is.  He's been spooned, soothed and protected throughout the endless dark hours of what is possibly the loneliest and most heartbreaking night he is forced to endure on a yearly basis.  He's been gifted unlimited gentleness.  Has been offered disarmingly tender... care.

Outright distress turns his already rigid frame to stone.  His eyes widen even further and his already flushed face turns literally ablaze with bone-deep embarrassment.  He jerks backwards instinctively, pulling his chin as far away from Potter's unbearably delicate touch as he can possibly manage.  His dismayed dark eyes close as he attempts to ride out the sickening roller-coaster of emotions that these thoroughly unwelcome news have just created within him.

He feels breathless with sheer shock.  He is ashamed beyond endurance and mortified to the point of actual trembling.  He feels horrified and wounded.  Utterly lost.  Absolutely humiliated by the knowledge that he chose Potter's offer of... comfort... over the safety of his usual dark alley nameless hook up.  He can hardly believe that he's been deluded enough, pitiful enough, to put himself in the position of having to endure the callous dismissal that he knows will come his way as soon as his host opens his mouth.

“There's no need for all this self-flagellation, Severus.  We are both adults.  Both unattached.  We didn't harm anyone by spending the night together.  I can't understand why you are taking this so badly.”

Hysterical laughter bubbles up the back of Severus' drying throat.  His eyes open once again to glare with unmistakable scorn at the little nitwit sitting so calmly beside him.  
“I used to be your damned teacher, Potter.  I happen to know you, personally know you.  I won't be able to escape this particular mistake.  Not even after I leave this bedroom behind.  You are one of Ginevra's best friends, for Merlin's sake!   We'll be forced to interact with one another on occasion while trapped together in Draco's home and I'll always be aware of the fact that you've seen me like this.  You've been inside of me.  You know exactly how I look beneath my clothes.  You know what my voice sounds like when I'm on the verge of orgasm.  You know precisely how my face crumbles into slackened unloveliness as soon as I let myself go.“

“Severus...”

“You are going to go clubbing one of these days and tell all your friends the amusing story of how you fucked the awful Severus Snape into your mattress.  You will laugh yourself hoarse while making depressingly detailed descriptions of my many shortcomings and each and every single one of the people laughing with you will be someone I taught potions to. Someone who despises me.  Someone who will relish the chance of seeing me humiliated.”

Potter's skin acquires a sick-looking pallor.  He looks shattered with the kind of bone-deep sorrow that's impossible to fake.  
“I wish you could see yourself through my eyes.  One day I'll share my memory of this morning with you, Severus.  I'm going to let you see exactly how I felt when I woke up next to you for the first time in my life and realized that last night hadn't been just another pretty dream of mine.  I didn't bed you to humiliate you or to have some sort of ludicrous revenge against you.  I came to terms with your role in the war a long time ago, professor, just like all my friends did.  I've moved on from all that darkness and now the only thing I want to do is live my life in peace.”

“I don't believe a word you are saying.”

To his credit the ex-Gryffindor doesn't even flinch. He studies Severus levelly with those earnest emerald eyes while the wobbly smile that curves his slightly chapped lips adds a shimmer of fragile sincerity to the words he finally whispers in soft-toned reply:  
“I know that you don't, Severus, but that doesn't make what I'm telling you any less truthful.  I bedded you because I think you are beautiful.  I like the man I see when you let down your masks and allow yourself the freedom to be _you_.  I love seeing you laugh whenever you think you are alone with Draco.  I never tire of watching the passionate light that brings warmth to your eyes every single time the two of you argue about potions.  I like the man you try so hard to hide.  The one who needed to feel loved last night because it was his 45th birthday and he didn't want to be alone.  The one who clung to me through a wild orgasm and thanked me for the kiss I placed carefully on his temple just before he fell asleep.  I've liked that man for a very long time now. I'm in love him, Severus.  I'm in love with _you_.  That's the plain and simple truth.”

Severus recoils, as if that simple declaration of affection has managed to strike him across the cheek, delivering all the stinging shock of a sudden and brutal slap to his paling face.  
“Don't you laugh at me, Potter.  Don't you dare to laugh at me!”  He growls fiercely, maddened beyond reason by the unnecessary cruelty of the brat's bare-faced lies.

“I'm not laughing at you.  I'm not trying to trick you, either.  I swear to you that I mean every single word I'm saying.  I want you to trust me, Severus.  I need you to trust me.  I'll prove it to you in any way you want. Just tell me how I can do that and I promise...”

“Give me my wand back, Potter.”  He whispers that one request into the discordant buzz of the brat's frantic babble, having already decided that the Gryffindor won't meet his demand without forcing him to go through some sort of exhausting and possibly humiliating haggling first.  He ends up nursing a truly uncomfortable case of guilty conscience when Potter simply stops talking and looks right into his eyes with the most disarming expression of heartbroken disappointment that Severus has ever seen displayed on his attractive features:

“Your wand is under your pillow, my love.  I know you well enough to realize that you'd feel bereft without it.  I'd have never taken your wand away from you, Severus.  You are not a prisoner here.  You accepted my invitation to spend the night with me because you wanted to feel...”

“Don't say it, please.  This situation is embarrassing enough without having to hear you enumerate all the ways in which I'm pitiful.”

“You are not pitiful at all.  You.  Are.  Beautiful, Severus.  Feeling the need to be loved is not something you should be ashamed of.  That's actually the most precious of human emotions and I...”

“I'm done listening to this drivel.”  He interrupts the seeker hastily, holding his wand aloft and casting a sharp-toned Accio that brings his clothes to him in the blink of an eye.  He gathers the heavy dark garments tightly with his trembling left hand, pressing them against the bare skin of his scarred chest like a shield against danger.

“You are leaving, then."  Potter says in a small whisper.  Those huge eyes are brimming with terrible hurt and disappointment behind the brat's trendy lenses and the inexplicably wounded expression that is flashing so clearly across their emerald depths manages to make Severus' gut twist uncomfortably with guilt when the brat continues to babble nervously:  "You didn't even drink your coffee and your eggs... I can't believe you'll leave your eggs untouched.  I can go back to the kitchen and scramble a few more, if you don't want to have them fried.  I can...”

“I'll have breakfast at home.  I've got no reason to stay here, Potter.  I'm not—I can't—I just... Goodbye.”

Years of Disapparating back to safety while badly injured or even partially restrained have taught him how to accomplish the feat without actually leaving the bed.  He half turns where he sits and whisks himself away from Potter's orbit, Apparating out of the man's bedroom before the seeker's next blink.   
  
His choice is made just like that and he can't help but feel the smallest bit uneasy about his actions as he tries to come to terms with the fact that he has chosen to remove himself completely from the only place -besides his own house and Draco's- where he has managed to sleep without feeling threatened for the first time in more years than he cares to count.  He has consciously decided to walk away from the terrifying notion that there may be one last man still left on this Earth who seems willing to love him romantically.  He refuses to even entertain the idea of what his future may have looked like if only this was true.  If only he had enough courage to trust a Gryffindor so blindly.  If only he didn't look as ugly as he does or wasn't as foul tempered. If only he could be, literally, anyone besides himself.

There is no point in thinking about such things any longer, though.  Potter will move on and so will he, he tells himself firmly as his feet land in the soothing familiarity of his own shadowy bedroom and, by the time he has spelled away the smattering of purpling hickeys that the man left in his neck, has dressed himself in a clean set of robes and is climbing down the stairs in search of a much needed cup of fortifying tea he has actually managed to convince himself that he is right about the wisdom of renouncing the temptation to let himself slip into fool-mode one last time.   
  
He can't afford to surrender to his illogical desire to stop doubting the sincerity of Potter's sweet avowals of love.  He won't allow himself the idiocy of daring to actually believe that a hunk like Harry Potter could ever want to be his.  Why should a man who can literally have anyone he wants willingly pick someone like him, anyway?  It makes no sense whatsoever.  And if there is something that his miserable life has taught him in painfully explicit detail is that things that make no sense are almost always too good to be true.  
  


 


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4.**

  
Harry fidgets in the richly upholstered chair and sighs explosively, feeling more than a little frustrated with his inability to sway Draco away from his adamant refusal to confide the exact location of Severus' home to him.  They have been locked in the blond's office for the best part of an hour, arguing back and forth without ever reaching any sort of mutually satisfactory agreement.

His tea went cold a long time ago and he's ravenously hungry, but he's also churlishly refusing to touch the mouthwatering array of small sandwiches that one of the house-elves placed on a small serving table before leaving them alone.  Despite his current level of resentment Harry had always assumed that his former schoolyard-rival was going to react exactly like this.  He'd have done the same thing if he'd been in the other man's shoes, after all.

He had actually anticipated Severus' frosty displeasure.  He'd even predicted with frightening accuracy how completely the man would shun him in an effort to give himself enough time to retreat right back inside his tattered armor.  He'd been expecting Severus' refusal to remain in his flat and talk things out like any less haunted man may have done, and he had even gone as far as planning exactly how to deal with that situation, only...   
  
His painstakingly devised plan has been a failure.  He miscalculated the strength of Severus' attachment to his carefully selected second lure and he just can't reconcile himself to the knowledge of how wrong he's been about this, of how woefully inaccurate his knowledge of Severus' personality has proven itself to be.  He can't believe how horribly mistaken he's been about the one assumption that he'd considered to have been pretty much carved in stone.  He'd expected Severus to descend knocking on his door within hours of abandoning his bedroom and now here he is an entire week later, still waiting for a visit that the man is very clearly never going to make.

The abject failure of his perfectly devised plot has forced him at long last to gather his shredded dignity about himself and come here in search of the kind of help he knows he'll never receive willingly.  Not from this source at least.  Not if he fails to convince this life-hardened version of the wimpy child he used to hate of the fact that his intentions towards Severus are nothing short of... pristine.

He is desperate by now and he knows it very well.  He also has the uncomfortable suspicion that his host can sense the weakness of his position from a mile away.  He needs help and there is no one else on earth who can possibly grant it to him when it comes to Severus Snape, so he swallows down a scream of sheer frustration and remains stiffly seated in his outrageously ornate chair, manfully enduring the challenge in Malfoy's flinty gaze as best as he can while attempting to ignore the thought that everything would be a hell of a lot easier if only Draco's loyalty to his godfather was a tiny bit weaker. If it wasn't going to end up forcing him to hunt Severus down in a far more public setting.

“I swear to you that I'm not going to harm him, Malfoy.  He left some stuff behind in my apartment and I want to return his things.  That isn't so bloody threatening, is it?”

“I can return them for you.  Or you could owl them to him.  Severus is a very private man who dislikes personal visits.  I see no reason for you to go all the way to his place in order to return these _misplaced_ items yourself.”

“I want to deliver them in person.  I need to see him and make sure he's alright.  I want to talk to him, for Godric's sake!”  He explains one more time, praying to Merlin for the other man to relent enough to help him.  He's desperately trying to avoid paying a visit to Severus' potions lab and ending up being forced to drag the man into the kind of public confrontation that he is so clearly shying away from.

Draco's pale lips compress into a thin line.  
“He doesn't want to talk to you, Potter.  It's rather tactless of you to pursue him so insistently.  Severus is ashamed of what happened between the two of you and is actively attempting to forget it.  I realize that he will have to face you at some point in the future, but he doesn't want to do it right now and I'm not going to help you force him into doing it before he is ready.”

“Are you even aware that I'm in love with him?”

Draco's harsh expression softens ever so slightly.  His gray eyes fill with unbearable pity and his response is both quiet and excruciatingly gentle.  Soft like a butterfly's wings.  Wounding with its heartfelt sympathy:  
“He doesn't believe you.”

Despite knowing that already, hearing the truth hurts Harry to the bone.  He flinches visibly in his chair, shrinking against the richly upholstered backrest like a weak and frightened creature, but his gaze remains steadily focused on his host's pale gray eyes through sheer determination to win the man's favor:  
“He told me as much the last time I saw him, Draco.  But he is wrong about this.  He's wrong about me and about what I want from him.  He's so very wrong.  I swear to you that I'm not going to hurt him.  I could never, ever, hurt him.”

“You've already hurt him, Harry.  He was content enough with his life.  Maybe he wasn't blissfully happy, but he was reasonably satisfied with his lot.  He'd just started to put the horror of the war finally behind him when you decided to play Casanova and ended up messing him up again.”

“I'm not playing with him, Malfoy.  I'm not going to let the two of you push me into the role of heartless Don Juan, just to soothe the guilty sting of Severus' conscience while he tries to cast me off.  I'm in love with that stubborn idiot and I need you to help me get hold of him so that I can convince him of my...”

“This has brought it all back, Potter.  All Severus can remember whenever he thinks about you now are the tricks your awful father and his idiotic sidekicks used to play on him year after year while he was growing up.  He's gone back to the memory of the decades he spent fulfilling the role of the most despised professor in the history of Hogwarts.  He's gone back to remembering everyone's mocking descriptions of him as an undesirable traitor.  
  
"My godfather is a cripplingly insecure man and you've just gone ahead and thrown him right back into the kind of dark memories that he's been trying so hard to forget.  He is so ashamed of himself that right now he's convinced that you are trying to make him pay for his past actions.  He is driving himself crazy waiting for the Prophet's article where you finally tell all about your awful night with a Death Eater.”

“That's never going to happen.  Never!”

Draco smiles at him briefly but his gaze is as flinty as Harry has ever seen it, and he's shaking his blond head from left to right with crystal-clear frustration.  
“Do you think I don't know that?  I'd bet even Severus himself knows it, deep down.  You've never been the kind of man who kisses and tells, Potter.  You've never been the kind of man who fucks around, either.  That's why he is so frightened right now.  I think he suspects that you are telling him the truth.  I believe he's realized it, but can't bring himself to accept it.  He can't cope with the idea of allowing himself to fall for you and end up having to confront everyone's outraged reaction to the possibility of the two of you ever becoming a couple.   
  
“He is a lot older than you are and rather unpopular.  He's at best a forgettable recluse and at worst a social pariah, whereas you... _You_ are the bloody Boy-Who-Lived, for Merlin's sake!  The entire world is going to despise whoever you end up with and that hatred will be all the more vicious once the public finds out that the man of your choice is none other than Severus Snape: infamous professor, traitorous Death Eater spy and the acknowledged murderer of Albus Dumbledore himself.”

“There is nothing I can do about any of that, Draco.  Public opinion is a very fickle thing.  They may hate him for a while, but it won't last.  I realize that Severus would probably feel relieved if I turn out to be a vengeful scumbag instead of a genuine suitor, but that's just not the case.  I genuinely, honestly, love him.  He doesn't have a single reason to be ashamed of what happened between us.  I'm the one who took advantage of him.  I knew that he was lonely and ready to settle for something that was never going to come near the same orbit of the thing he wanted the most.  I made him an offer I knew full well he wasn't going to be able to refuse.  Not on that particular night and definitely not while he was drunk.  I even encouraged him to drink more, after his initial refusal to come home with me, knowing that the lower his defensive shields became, the more chances I had of having him eventually surrender to his own deepest desires.”

“This is really none of my business, Potter.”

“No, it's not.  But you are the only connection to him that I have right now and he trusts you.  I trust you. You've got to listen to me, Malfoy.  I used my knowledge of Severus' nature to lure him away from his first choice of companion and brought him home with me that night.  It wasn't a mistake on my part and it wasn't a coincidence, either.”

“Potter, I honestly don't want to...”

Harry ignores the blond's discomfited protest and continues speaking adamantly, grimly determined to make his ex-rival understand precisely what he is feeling.  What he has done.  What he is so desperately attempting to achieve:  
“Listen to me, please.  I attended an international Quidditch conference last year.  I was reading the Prophet one morning when one of the french players spotted the picture of Severus they published the day he won that potions award for his improvements to the formula of the Dreamless Sleep.   
  
“The guy gaped at the photo and snatched the paper right out of my hand to read the article, then he asked me if the person in the picture was really the infamous Severus Snape.  When I confirmed the information he started chuckling to himself and told me there and then how he had sex with Severus a few years earlier, after meeting him at The Unfettered Queer one night, back in the days when he'd been The Manchester Bullfrog's reserve beater.  Best shag of his life, he called him, and I... I've never been more infuriated with someone in all my life.  I've never been more grateful to someone I so deeply resented, either.”

“Stop that, Potter, for heaven's sake!  I don't want to hear any of this and nothing you say now will sway me from my position on this matter, anyway.”

“I was already desperately in love with Severus back then, but I thought he was straight, Malfoy.  I spent years pining for a man I was convinced I could not have.  Do you have any idea of how relieved I felt when I finally realized that Severus is like me?  I'm not going to stop pursuing him until he gives me a proper chance to show him how truly wonderful our future could become, if only he dares to put a single shred of his faith in me.  I'm not going to give up.  I _can't!_   You've got to understand me, Draco, please...  Turning my back on my feelings without even daring to put up the fight of my life just to earn my chance at being allowed to woo him properly will be the death of me.”

“Then I wish you good luck.  I genuinely do, Potter.  And I'm more sorry than you shall ever know about having to tell you that I'm not going to help you.  I wish I could, but I can't.  I'm Severus' secret keeper because he trusts me with both his life and his safety and I'd cut off my own tongue and burn it with Fiendfyre before betraying that trust.  Do you understand me?   If you want my godfather's home address you'll have to get him to disclose it to you personally, because I most certainly won't do it.  I'm sorry.”  
 **  
  
** ** **** **  
  
****


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5.**

  
Severus hears the doorbell ring frantically in the front room of his shop and frowns into his cauldron.  Although his laboratory is located on the far corner of Diagon Alley it isn't an actual apothecary.  He'd refused to tie himself to any given contract upon his return to the United Kingdom, rejecting every single offer of employment he'd received no matter how lucrative it may have appeared to be on the surface.  He'd been tired of toiling for the benefit of others, exhausted of following orders and absolutely determined to avoid falling into the trap of complying with agendas that weren't his own and didn't particularly interest him, so he'd balked at the very idea of subjecting himself to any sort of subservience, no matter how indirect.

He'd opted for opening his own independent lab instead and now accepts to work for others on a freelance basis, as long as the job requested intrigues him in some way.  In addition to that he brews and sells his own brand of regular use and medicinal potions to a select number of high-end apothecaries and conducts all manner of research projects in his own terms.  He often spends his days safely ensconced in his lab for hours on end without ever setting eyes on another person.  All of his business dealings are carried out by owl and he has never so far had to deal with the distressing experience of trying to please actual customers, since he doesn't keep a stock of ready-to-buy potions in his shelves.

He sighs, rubbing his slightly pounding temples soothingly even as he casts the stasis spell that will keep his current experiment from being thoroughly ruined while he goes upstairs in search of the clueless tourist who must have mistakenly entered his establishment assuming it to be an actual apothecary.  Spotting a casually attired man on the far corner of his front room Severus walks forwards briskly, beginning to speak out loud even as he focuses distractedly on the task of charming his hands free from any ingredient residue left over by his brewing, in preparation to making the cup of tea that he has now decided to fix for himself before returning to work.

“I'm sorry for your trouble, Sir, but I'm afraid that we don't carry ready-made potions in this particular establishment.”

“I know that, Severus.”

His steps falter as that thoroughly unmistakable voice reaches his ears.  His fingers curl instinctively around the comfortingly familiar handle of his wand and he feels as if his lungs have lost all air.  His head shoots up, forcing his widened eyes into unwelcome collision with a determined-looking green glare and time itself appears to slow down before freezing.  Keeping them both motionless and speechless in the growing silence.

“Potter... What are you doing here?”

The Gryffindor huffs impatiently, apparently deeply offended by what Severus himself thinks is a very reasonable question.  
“What else did you expect me to do?  I wanted to see you, Severus.  I've been trying to set up a more convenient time and place for us to talk, but you haven't bothered to answer a single one of the owls I've sent you.”

“I'd have thought that my failure to do so would have conveyed my desire to be left alone clearly enough.”

“No amount of hiding your head in the sand is going to take this away.  We.  Made.  Love.  There's no reason to be ashamed of it.  I enjoyed myself immensely and so did you.  It was one of the most glorious experiences of my life and I'll be damned before I let you treat it like some sort of ghastly little mistake.  I've already told you that I have feelings for you.  Feelings that I'd like to have the chance to explore further.”

“And I've already told you that I don't believe that ridiculous claim, Potter.  Tell me what you really want from me in order to keep quiet and I may be inclined to negotiate some sort of mutually beneficial terms with you.”

“I'm not going to sell you out, Severus!  This is my private life too, you know?  I realize you aren't all that willing to trust me right now, but just think about it for a second, OK?  There's no reason whatsoever for you to be behaving as if I'm the one who's out to get you when you are the one who has all the power in this relationship.”

“We.  Don't.  Have.  A.  Relationship!”  Severus utters those incensed five words in a clearly annoyed hiss and the ex-Gryffindor becomes instantly still, seeming to be reacting instinctively to his raising temper.

“Of course we do.  No matter how much you try to deny it the truth is that I.  Am.  In.  Love. With.  You, so...”

“No.  You are not.  You can't be.  You are only saying that because you...”

“Yes?”

“I don't know!  It doesn't make a lick of sense to me.  What the hell are you playing at, Potter?  What do you want from me?”

“Everything.  I want everything from you.  I want you to give me a chance to court you.  A real chance, Severus, not this painful self-protective brush off that you are so determined to deliver right now.”

Severus' breath catches as that statement falls into the silence that surrounds them like the gauntlet of an ancient, reckless knight.  His dark gaze widens to capacity and he stares with unblinking dismay straight into the determined emerald orbs that are looking right back at him with equal amounts of challenge and a fierce, crystal-clear longing.  
“I have nothing to give you.  I have nothing left to give to anyone.  I was stripped bare of anything of value that I may have had even the slightest chance of offering to another human being a long time ago, Potter.”

That young face softens with unmistakable tenderness and the seeker's intense emerald eyes shimmer in the dimness of the room as they gaze upon him intently, pinning him to the spot with the force of the powerful emotion that has begun to swirl within their depths.  
“I've seen you with Draco.  I've seen the way you handle both your potions and your books.  I've seen the way you look at Hogwarts whenever you go back and how your trembling fingertips keep on tracing the carving of Dumbledore's coat of arms every time you visit his grave.  You have always known love.  You are capable of loving people, things, places and even memories with all your heart, Severus. I've seen it with my own eyes.  You are so full of things to give that I'm surprised you haven't lost your sanity yet.  Keeping such emotional intensity locked in so tightly all the bloody time can't be good for anyone.”

“Potter...”

“It's OK.  I realize I'm making you uncomfortable.  I know you aren't precisely used to talking about emotions so openly and I'm perfectly willing to leave this conversation for another time, Severus.  There's no need for you to panic right now.  All I want to do is..."  
  
"I couldn't possibly care any less about what you want. You can't walk into my shop and expect me to take your attempts to blackmail me lying down.  If you think that being the goddamned Savior of the Wizarding World gives you the right to bully me right into humiliation you've got a very different lesson coming your way.  I may be pitiful, but I'm not powerless.  I will fight you tooth and nail, and you will most definitely never obtain whatever petty satisfaction you are currently seeking."

Potter takes an irritatingly deep gulp of air, looking for all intents and purposes like one of those annoyingly pious muggle martyrs who spent their entire lives doggedly reciting their perfect little nugget of golden wisdom to a mass of growling jungle savages in the hopes of helping them 'see' the light.   
"I don't want to humiliate you, Severus.  I'm not here to blackmail you into doing anything you don't want to do, either.  I just—You left your vest and one of your socks at my place, OK?  You were in such a rush to leave that morning that I don't think your Accio spell was as focused as it should have been and I wanted to make sure you got your things back.  Why don't you come over and collect them, say this afternoon around four?  We can have a cup of tea together and talk for a little while, get to know each better.”

Severus frowns, instinctively wary of trusting both the apparently harmless invitation and the idea that his Accio spell may have failed.  He's cast it plenty of times in the same or even more nerve-wracking situations and it has never failed to work perfectly.  
“You must have shielded those items from my charm-work.  Why should I even bother trying to collect them now?  What else have you cast on them?  I'm not stupid enough to accept those things back without checking them for hexes, Potter.  You won't be able to hide whatever you did for long, so..."

Potter simply laughs and the sound is so heartbroken, so thoroughly mirthless, that Severus flinches away, taking a single step back in order to put much necessary distance between himself and this ashen-faced version of the famous Boy-Who-Lived.  
"I freely admit that I charmed them against your Accio spell, Severus.  But I didn't do it to have the chance to cast something nefarious upon you.  I kept them with me so that I could do this. I planned to use them to give you a safe enough excuse to come back to my apartment.  I wanted to try and draw you in, offer you a chance to let me ease your fears about what will happen now that we've finally been... intimate.  I wanted to give you the chance to realize that I can reassure you.  I can soothe your current anxiety about all of this.  I can tell you to your face precisely what I'm going to do now and what I'm expecting to achieve with my actions.  The only thing you have to do is find the courage to be alone with me so soon after what happened.”

“You can't goad me into going back to your place, Potter.  I don't have to prove myself to you.  I'm not a bloody teenager, you know?  You can keep my fucking sock under your blasted pillow and hug it every night for the rest of your life for all I care!”

The brat smiles tightly at him while those steadily darkening green eyes study him thoughtfully in the tense silence that follows.  One second slowly fades away, turning inexorably into the next as it follows the soothing rhythm set forth by the grandfather clock that stands just beside the rarely used till.  
“You may have no compunctions about abandoning a measly sock as a casualty of our skirmish, but can you say the same thing about that particular vest, Severus?  I know it was a present from Albus. The last gift he ever gave you, wasn't it?  There is a personalized inscription on the label and I know you wear it every single year on your birthday.  You also wear it on Christmas and New year.  You wore it on the day you won your potions award and when they finally gave you your Order Of Merlin, First Class.  You even wore it to Draco's wedding, didn't you?  That faint silver pattern on the lapel is pretty much unmistakable.  I've never seen anything like it.”

“Runes.  That pattern is the echo left behind by the protective runes Albus wove into the cloth before he gave it to me.  That vest is unique in all the world.  It's the only one of its kind that Albus ever bothered to charm and I'm ridiculously fond of it.  I swear I'll kill you with my bare hands if you've damaged it on purpose, Potter!”

The seeker appears to be more relieved than upset upon being threatened and Severus frowns uneasily, too puzzled by the brat's inexplicable attitude to be able to ignore it with any degree of success.  Potter goes as far as to smile from ear to ear, looking for all intents and purposes like a thoroughly delighted cat who has just feasted on a double ration of cream and each and every one of Severus' internal alarms starts blaring ominous warnings in the privacy of his mind.  
  
“I wasn't so far off after all.  You do care about that vest.  I've done nothing to it, I swear.  I've kept it safe for you, Severus.  I planned to give it back from the beginning, only—you failed to barge back into my flat as soon as you realized it was gone.  I still don't understand why you did that.  I was expecting you to confront me about it's disappearance at the very least.”  
  
Severus' anger dissolves like an ice-cube left in the sun there and then.  His cheeks acquire the delicate tint of a thoroughly embarrassed blush and his gaze lowers uncomfortably towards the floor even as his shoulders square, unconsciously straightening his lanky body to its intimidating full length in order to allow him to achieve the forbidding rigidity of a marble statue.  He's thus pushed right back inside the skin of his former persona, back to being the despised Severus Snape of former years.  Back to hiding in plain sight, locked by his own self-protective instincts inside the unyielding constraints of his old, battered armor even though the war ended long ago and he has learned to loath the character he was forced to play for Albus' goddamned "Greater Good" with a fierce passion.  
  
"Severus?  Are you alright?  Your face has gone as blank as the empty page of a diary.  I can't read you any longer.  You look like..."  
  
"Myself.  I look like the man who taught you potions for five interminably long years, Potter.  I look precisely like the Severus Snape you've always known.“

“No.  This isn't you at all.  This is what's left of that awful mask you used to wear all the damned time.  You've got to leave it behind.  I'm not threatening you in any way and you bloody well know it!”

“Who the hell do you think you are?  You don't get to tell me what to do about anything!  I'll behave in any way I want to and if you don't like what you see you're more than welcome to get right back to your charming little life, and leave me in peace to live my own as I see fit.  Go on, walk out the fucking door and do not bother to return.  I'm tired of your constant pushing, Potter.  You're never going to get anything out of me by trying to force me into it."   
  
"I'm not trying to force you into anything, for Merlin's sake!  I'm just trying to have a fucking conversation with you."  
  
"Well, I don't want to have a 'fucking conversation' with you.  I don't want to see you or listen to you.  I don't even want to be in the same room as you are.  I've gone as far as to ignore every single missive of yours demanding further contact and yet here you are: you've barreled into my shop and demanded we talk about an extremely personal mistake I made while I was blind drunk.  A mistake I'd rather forget, by the way.  You are forcing me to stand here and look at you, listen to your ramblings, breathe the same air you are breathing despite my obvious lack of desire to do so.  How can you even claim with a straight face that you're not trying to force me into doing anything I don't want to do?  I want you to disappear from my sight, do you hear me?  I want you to leave me alone, Potter.  I want you to show me the kind of respect that I most certainly deserve and listen to me when I tell you to get the hell out of my shop!"  
  
Potter's face becomes ferocious in the blink of an eye.  His skin loses all color, allowing the otherworldly brightness of his angry emerald eyes to become the unavoidable feature that defines his young face:  
“Fine!  If you want me to leave you alone so badly then I most certainly will.  I'm half tempted to let you find out exactly how bloody empty you are going to feel once you get precisely what you claim so hard to desire.  Sometimes the frightened whispers of our mind become the voice of our worst enemy, Severus.  I spent entire years of my life so desperately hell bent on becoming a real Weasley that I dragged the entire family through the most heartbreaking misery.   
  
"I know everything there is to know about hiding behind the soothing mask of the man we either want the world to think we are or honestly believe we should become.  You won't be able to keep on living that kind of lie forever.  Trying to be who you aren't will eventually destroy you and everything that you love along the way.  It will wound everyone you care for and everyone who cares for you in return.  It will leave you empty inside, wounded beyond salvation.  It will eat away the loving soul that makes you so breathtakingly beautiful, Severus.  It will destroy the part of you that makes you... _you._ ”  
 

  
 


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6.**

****  
Severus watches Potter turn around jerkily and walk towards the front door of his shop.  He's unable to understand why on Earth the sight of the brat's retreating back is making him feel so god-dammed devastated, but the truth is that he can hardly bear to stand still and watch the seeker leave his life for good.  
  
He's pretty certain that a man like Potter won't bother to offer his heart on a silver platter twice.  Not when it has been so unequivocally rejected.  Potter will never darken the front room of his shop again.  Will no longer care to seek his little corner in Draco's front parlor, offering him quiet company during those interminable dinner parties that Ginevra never seems to tire of organizing.  The Gryffindor will walk out of his shop and forget him without pause, moving on sooner or later to far better, greener pastures while he spends the next ten decades sitting idly in front of his fireplace, constantly wondering if the never-ending peace he'd just bought with this rejection has been worth it.  If he'd been one-hundred percent certain that Potter was lying.  If he's really so attached to his dreary little existence that he'd still choose it over the possibility of... more _..._ if he wasn't quite so cowardly.

**“** Oh, fuck this!”  The Gryffindor suddenly hisses just as he reaches the door, startling Severus right out of his gloomy thoughts and he stands there, as paralyzed as a small rabbit caught in the intense glare of a sudden Lumos spell, while Potter's furious steps grind to a complete halt and the man himself proceeds to stand still for what seems like an interminably long second.  
  
Potter's athletic shoulders are hunched slightly forwards.  He seems visibly dejected, like a man who's been condemned to carry around the most unbearable weight known to humankind.  His messy dark head shakes from left to right in two rapid, jerky motions before he turns around once again and comes barreling towards Severus with the kind of look in his face that the Slytherin has only ever seen gracing that visage in pictures of the final battle, or the million and one victories that the nearly invincible seeker has been skilled enough to collect along his meteoric rise through the ranks of professional Quidditch.  Potter finally comes to a determined stop right in front of him, looking for all the world like the very image of a seriously ticked off warrior about to engage in a battle that he has no intention of losing.  
  
“You know what?  I'll go when I'm good and ready, Severus.  If I can't goad you into going back to my apartment then, by Godric, I'm not going to let you goad me into walking out, either.  You're not a teenager anymore and neither am I, isn't that marvelous?  I've finally grown up enough to go toe to toe against you.  We are on even ground right now and I'm intensely satisfied to be able to inform you that you can't use any of your old tricks to push me away.  I may have fallen for them in the past, but I didn't know you back then the way I do now.  I want to know why you're reacting like this to such a harmless comment and I want to know it right this second.  Do you understand me?  You don't get to turn this viciously against me just to force me into walking out without having to bother to offer me a single explanation.  I'm an adult and so are you.  You owe me some respect and I swear you are going to give it to me!”

Severus' hackles rise in reaction to the bastard's boldness.  No one has the right to chastise him in his own shop.  No one is going to be allowed to order him about any longer.  He stopped bowing down to threats as soon as the war ended.  
“Really?  And how are you planning to force me into doing that, Oh-Mighty-Savior?  Are you going to hex me to my knees and Crucio me until I beg your forgiveness?  I was under the impression that you were a strong moral detractor of that sort of behavior, Potter.”

“Do you really want to be the kind of man who hides behind a mask, Severus?  Do you really lack the courage to peel that bloody thing off and be yourself once and for all?  What do you have to lose?  I'm not going to hurt you and I'm not going to walk away, either.  I just want to know what makes you tick.  I need to understand you better, so that I can try to avoid saying anything that may drive you to become this man again.  
  
"Professor Severus Snape is dead and buried.  He was never really alive.  He was... a mask.  A very good one, I'll give you that.  But he was a mask nevertheless and a mask may protect you from the world to a certain degree, but it can't ever make you happy.  How could it, Severus?  It's not even real.  It's just a tool meant to help you hide who you really are from all those who are willing to love you.  You were never like this with Albus and I know you'd rather die than show this side of yourself to Draco.   Why can't you lower your forbidding shields for me, too?”

“Potter...”

“You can raise them right back up if I prove myself unworthy of your trust, OK?  I swear I won't bother you then.  But you have to let me in first.  You have to give me a proper chance to win you over without casting me away preemptively out of fear.  You have to let me show you just how much I could give you before deciding to cast my heart away so callously.  These are my emotions we are talking about, Severus.  These are my most precious dreams.  I don't deserve to be treated like an enemy by you.  I've done nothing to earn your derision and I refuse to accept it.  Aren't you man enough to tread over another bloke's heart with gentle care?”

Utter discomfort sweeps Severus from head to toes, deflating his peeved anger with the sharp prick of guilt.  His windpipe closes altogether and, for a panic-inducing second, he finds himself unable to even breathe.  His lungs feel small and constricted, his blood pounds against his every pulse-point like a horde of stampeding wild horses and he's hovering indecisively between the opposite responses of fight or flight, unable to decide which choice to make.  Refusing to even choose between a safety that has managed to keep him away from emotional harm for many years and the hazy possibility of the kind of companionship that could very well fill the endless void that his life has become.  If only this is true.  If Potter actually means what he's claiming.  If he has the actual boldness to dare reaching out for it.

“Severus?”

“I wasn't even aware that Albus' vest was missing.”  He finally whispers quietly into the silence, taking a single step towards the dazzling possibility of forging a future for himself that may not so clearly resemble the heartbreaking loneliness of either his past or his present.  “I cast that Accio spell and promptly Disapparated from your place without taking the time to check the bundle of clothes that had flown towards me.  By the time I reached home I couldn't stand the sight of them, so I vanished them all to the bottom of my clothing hamper.  I haven't looked at them ever since, Potter.  I—I've been unable to accept the foolishness of my actions that night.”

“Oh, Severus...”  Potter attempts to come closer and he feels utterly threatened.  It's too much.  Simply too much.  It's too soon for all of this and he's already starting to regret the ridiculous impulse that lead him to open up, to expose himself so thoroughly.  To make himself so pathetically vulnerable to the Gryffindor's harsh judgment.

“Don't laugh at me.  Don't you dare to laugh at me, Potter.  I'm not a coward.  I just—I'm not that keen on whining over stupid mistakes that can't be rectified, that's all.  I'd have gone through those clothes sooner or later.  I assure you.”

“Our time together wasn't a mistake, Severus.  You needed to feel loved on your birthday and ended up in the arms of a man who'd give up a great deal to be given the chance to cherish you.  I'd say you were lucky that night.  You got precisely what you wanted.”

“I wanted sex without repercussions.  I wanted to be able to walk away the next day and put my awful weakness behind me.  How am I supposed to do that now?  You are here already, attempting to confront me despite my clear refusal to acknowledge your every request for further contact.  You aren't going to let me forget that ghastly night no matter what I do, are you?  I'd say this isn't what I wanted at all.  Not by a long shot.”

“Oh, it is what you wanted.  It may not ever come close to what you were willing to settle for, but it's definitely what you wanted, Severus.  You just have to stop lying to yourself for long enough to admit that what you think you can have when it comes to love and what you really desire are not the same thing at all.  You wanted safe and casual because you honestly believe that you can't have anything else.  But you can.  You can have love of the genuine, openly acknowledged and permanent kind.  You can have respect, desire, loyalty.  You can have anything and everything you dare to ask for and more.  I'd willingly turn myself inside out if that would make you happy.”

"You can't be serious.”  Severus whispers that small, raw-toned denial while his dark gaze seems unable to avoid the intent expression flashing determined green fire across those bespectacled eyes.  “Do you have any idea of how many men will give their right arms for the chance to even hear half the things you've just told me?  You could have anyone you wanted, Potter.  Anyone at all.  You could have the best man that this old world has to offer hanging from your arm as soon as you give him a chance, and yet you're offering your affection to _me_.  I'm not good enough for you.  I'm not good enough for anyone.  Even if I try to force myself to go through the ridiculous idea of allowing you to court me, there's no way that's going to work.  I'm just not... "

“Yes, you are.  You could be right when you imply that I could have anyone I wanted, but the fact is that I.  Want.  You.  There is no one else out there who can possibly claim to be a better man than you are.  Not really.  I don't care if you can't see it right now.  I can and, since this is my heart's choice to make, my opinion on the matter has definitely more weight than yours.  Wouldn't you agree?”

“You're crazy.”

“I'm not, I swear.  I just have a great and unique taste in men.  Come on, sweetheart, give me a chance.  Let me take care of you.  Trust me.”

Despite his desire to reject the savior's unbelievable avowal of love, the truth is that Potter's sincere-sounding words have been hammering his composure to a pulp with ever-increasing strength since the brat refused to leave.  Unable to withstand the pressure of staring straight into the pleading expression so clearly painted over the Gryffindor's eyes Severus takes a single step backwards, attempting to put some much needed distance between himself and the intense, tempting creature who seems hell bent on destroying his pitifully crumbling defenses.  
  
"Please, _please_ , don't walk away from me.  Not like this, Severus.  Give me a chance to fight for you.  I'm begging you."  Potter whispers with raw-toned desperation, matching Severus' agitated step backwards with a forward one of his own and he whirls away in frantic retreat, walking briskly towards the shop's wide windows in order to stare blindly at the bustling street outside through the slightly smeared glass.

His dark gaze focuses determinedly outwards as he attempts to come to terms with the shame that he feels in reaction to his own frightened withdrawal.  He's unable to withstand the thought of turning around to face Potter.  He's reluctant to seek refuge behind his old trusty mask again, but he feels quite simply incapable of trusting the brat enough to allow himself the dangerous stupidity of showing Potter precisely how unsettled he feels.  He's too shaken to even fake his usual phlegmatic detachment and the mere idea of actually daring to expose his unbearable fragility to the Gryffindor feels both alien and suicidal.

“I don't know how I managed to upset you so much, but I'm honestly sorry about it, Severus.  I just wish you'd let me in.  I can hold you through this, no matter what is causing it.  I can take care of you, I promise.”  Potter's voice reaches him as if through a dark tunnel and he shrugs one thin shoulder in a clumsy little gesture of disheartened dismissal that betrays his agitation.

A second later his ears catch the unmistakable sound of the seeker's inexorable approach and he closes his dark eyes in exhausted surrender, allowing his tired mind to register the brat's noisy attempts to come near him with the entirety of his body.  He remains utterly still as Potter draws ever closer with steps that resonate as loudly as the rumble of thunder in the eerie quiet.  
  
A hand suddenly brushes against the very tips of his loose hair, tangling itself in his soft, dark locks with a touch that seems both hesitant and helpless, making him instantly realize that the Gryffindor feels bereft and afraid too.  That he isn't the only one left exposed.  That they are both truly on the same boat. Both equally afraid of the other's rejection.  Both equally helpless and weakened.  Both hurting.

That simple realization somehow makes everything easier, but it also makes the entire situation a lot harder in ways that he's never imagined before.  He's so used to dealing with Harry Potter's irritating boldness that he's never even contemplated how he'd cope with the brat's disarming insecurity.  He feels inexplicably protective of the creature standing just behind him and his heart pounds in his chest as the touch of the boy's trembling fingertips burns his nervous system all the way down to his toes.  
  
His long frame begins to shake and he's conscious that it shows.  He's aware that he's now finally wide open and utterly exposed before the emerald eyes of this man who claims to love him.  Of this boy he used to teach.  Of the teenager whose hatred he once craved.  A child who'd found enough strength within his heart to defend the pariah he'd been at the end of the war from each and every one of his many detractors.  Testifying in his behalf again and again in a trial that had lasted longer than any other and had ended up being as vicious as the war itself.  A savior who had not only destroyed the root of all the darkness he'd so foolishly embraced for all the wrong reasons but who seems now equally determined to save him from his unrelenting, life-long loneliness.

“Severus?”  Potter dares to gasp his given name in a soft sigh that breaks the unbearable quiet.  The hand still tangled in his hair opens wide, flattening delicately over his robe-covered shoulder and pressing against it reassuringly.  “I'm here.  Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?  I'm here and I'm staying.  I'm not going to let go.  I can't let you go.  Not like this.  Not without trying to make you __see__.”

That quiet promise dangles before his tightly closed eyes like a water drop in the desert, instantly becoming as fiercely coveted as golden temptation itself.  He should shun it's dazzling beauty, turn his back on it and escape.  He should run away from Potter's dangerous promises as fast as his legs can take him, but he's by now simply unable to take a single step in the opposite direction.  
  
He has been snared by the unbearable beauty of hope and his ever-growing desire to surrender himself to the dream of feeling loved just this once is stronger than his willingness to resist it.  His entire frame turns to stone with the effort of remaining where he is, precisely where he is.  Looking out through the smeared glass at the world passing him by, just outside the window.  He has always felt like this.  Exactly like this.  He's always played the role of the hungry, forgotten child who's forced to stare longingly at the alluring warmth of a family's loving kitchen through the windowpane of life.  He's always been the kid the world forgot outside.  The teenager everyone left out.  The man who has always been denied.

He remembers precisely what he felt while he sat in solitary splendor at the darkest table of The Unfettered Queer on the night of his birthday, self-pityingly disparaging his lonely existence and wondering, like most drunks usually do, what the hell had he ever done to deserve his horrible fate.  Potter had appeared out of nowhere and saved him from the bitter taste of solitude that night.  The Gryffindor had held him against his heart, sheltered him, soothed the shameful neediness of his soul with disarming care.

Could he really admit that he wants to have all that care again without being mocked for his vulnerability?  Could he really afford to place the very safety of his often wounded heart in Potter's calloused hands?  Is he even able to turn his back on the first real possibility that anyone has ever given him to crawl his way into that impossibly bright kitchen he's always wanted to be in?  Is he really willing to throw away the chance to sleep cradled in Potter's arms one more time?  Is he honestly so cowardly that he'll turn his back on the companionship he so desperately craves out of fear?  Is he truly so pathetic that he'll condemn himself to certain loneliness because he doesn't have the balls to reach out and admit he wants more?  Is he really crazy enough to actually doubt the sincerity of the blasted Boy-Who-Lived?

“I don't know if I can give you what you want, Potter.  I want to trust you, but I'm not sure I can.  I've never been good at... romance.”

“I'm not good at romance, either.  But I'm willing to give it my best shot.”

“If this is a trick...”  He begins to whisper a warning only to falter mid-sentence when the hand pressed against his shoulder blade twitches slightly.  Short nails dig into the thick cloth of his robe, betraying the kind of flustered agitation that he can definitely cope better with when it isn't being shoved directly in his face.

“I'm in love with you.  That is not a trick.  It's the truth, Severus.”  Potter says with quiet sincerity and he believes himself brave enough to gamble his heart away like a madman on a self-destructive spree as long as he doesn't have to turn around and face the Gryffindor.  As long as he can keep his dark gaze fixed on the oblivious world so determinedly passing him by on the other side of the window.

He can definitely be bold enough and defiant enough and yes, crazy enough, to dare reaching out for the impossible while his eyes keep on watching the masses who despise him scurry away from him without bothering to notice his existence.  He can send his god-forsaken insecurity packing for one last rebellious ride down the foolish road of hope and, if he ends up burning to cinders for allowing himself the idiocy of such reckless daring, then at least he'll go down feeling less than utterly disappointed with his own terrible choices.

He has to try reaching out for more because not trying will cost him everything, anyway, and he's positively exhausted of being a fucking loser.  He has played that same goddamned role for so long now that he knows his lines by heart.  He needs a break, even if that's foolish.  He needs to become the person Albus so often claimed he's always been.  He needs to become the Slytherin who should have been a Gryffindor.  He needs to feel proud of the man he sees inside the mirror and he'll never achieve that if he insists on cowering from life like a spineless little rat, letting it grind him constantly into the ground.  
  
“One chance, Potter.  I'll give you this one chance on the condition that you'll leave me the hell alone if you mess this up so horribly that I'd rather die than grant you another one.  Is that understood?”

Potter's hand curls convulsively around his bony shoulder, shaking digits dig quite painfully against bone and muscle, attempting to turn him around to no avail.  A sigh ghosts against the back of his neck then.  The sound is quiet, but heartfelt, and Severus feels its warmth coil somewhere deep within him, waiting for permission to take root and spread all over.  Waiting to claim, to anchor him.  Waiting to... conquer... him.  
  
“One chance is all I need, Severus.”

“There will be no sex, Potter.”  He whispers that one condition in a small, flustered gasp and his heart skips a beat when the Gryffindor's warm palm moves away from his shoulder for the first time since he'd started touching him, sliding down his rigid arm ever so slowly, until that foreign hand tangles with his own and they end up palm to palm.  Fingers to fingers.  Wrist to wrist.

“That's alright.  I don't want you for sex.  I want you forever, Severus, and nobody builds forever among bed sheets alone.”

“You'll bring those items of clothing that you stole from me.  I'll be waiting for you here at seven o'clock on the dot.  I will not wait for you if you are late and I will not give you another chance.  Do you understand me, Potter?”

“Here?  You expect us to have our first date, ever, _here_?”  The Gryffindor gasps incredulously, quite obviously horrified by Severus' choice of venue.

“Why shouldn't it be here?  This is private enough.  No one will ever know about any of this if things go pear-shaped, and I'll be able to boot you out as soon as I feel threatened.”

“This is your idea of a chance?  You are setting us both for failure, Severus.”

Severus turns around then, forcing his companion to take a couple of steps backwards in order to avoid a direct collision with his agitated frame.  Widened black eyes seek and find the earnest sincerity shining like a beacon from the depths of the most beautiful pair of emerald orbs he's ever seen and he forces himself to whisper in ruffled defensiveness:  
“I want to feel safe.  I want to have control over this... date... of ours.  I want to have privacy, Potter. I don't want to be paraded down the streets of Diagon Alley, hanging from the arm of the blasted Boy-Who-Lived like an ill-fitting accessory.  I won't have tomorrow's Prophet laugh at me for being seen dining in your company, do you understand me?  I won't allow anyone to insinuate that I am one of _your men.”_

“How could anyone call you one of 'my men', Severus?  There are no men in my life.  There has only ever been you for years now.  Leave the venue to me, please.  Trust me a little.  You'll be safe and we'll have privacy, I promise you.  Just—Let me show you how it is possible to find romance outside the walls of your shop's little front room.  We don't have to go chasing old Skeeter's dicto-quill, but we've got nothing to hide, either.  We have every right in the world to create the most memorable first date we can possibly conceive.  This is going to be the beginning of our life together, Severus.  I won't let you taint the memory of it with fear-induced mediocrity.”

“Potter...”

“No.  Just—no. Let's not meet tonight at all, please, Severus.  I need time to prepare everything properly.  Tomorrow should be perfect, though.  I'll come for you at Five o'clock on the dot.   Be ready to do this the right way, my love.  I've got one chance to woo you.  One measly chance, Severus.  I can't afford to waste it.  I just... _can't_!” **  
  
** **  
**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7.**

 

Harry makes a conscious effort to finally stop fidgeting with his hair and steps away from the mirror.   Half an hour of nervous combing shows no visible results with the unruly mass that tops his head and he sighs with defeat.  His eyes rake over the casual green robes that he's decided to wear, wondering what Severus will make out of them.  They are a tad too bright and trendy but also comfortable enough to have quickly become one of his favorites, and he's been wearing them so often that they have a decidedly commonly-worn look about them.

He's thought long and hard about everything he's planned for this evening, from the comfy clothes he's wearing to the relaxing activities that he's finally settled on.  He may have come across as a confident go-getter to Severus, but the truth is that he's more used to allowing others to try to dazzle him with their own ideas of romance than he is to being the man doing the actual wooing.

He's been worrying all day long about his arrangements.  Trying to predict how Severus will react to each and every one of his choices. Attempting to decide whether his plan is too simple.  Too casual.  Too reminiscent of a couple of friends goofing around to actually deliver the sort of message he's so desperately trying to convey to his difficult Slytherin.  He doesn't want to overwhelm Severus with anything too formal, but he's wary of offending him by being far too casual.

Ever since he almost made the fatal mistake of walking out of Severus' shop, he has been in a state of absolutely terrified agitation.  He'd thought he was emotionally prepared to deal with the stress of being the focus of his beloved's anger, but the truth is that he'd been pretty ill-equipped to deal with the hurt that Severus' stubborn refusal to even listen to him had caused.  Thinking back on his behavior as he stands before his mirror Harry is forced to acknowledge the fact that, no matter how many times he tells himself that Severus' reaction to fear is a cutting form of anger, he's too emotionally invested in the man to remember to ignore the awful hurt caused by having all that vicious vitriol directed solely at him.

One chance.  Severus has given him a single chance to prove himself worthy of acceptance and, no matter how confident he sounded when he accepted the potioneer's conditions, the plain and simple truth is that he's frightened right out of his mind.  What if everything goes wrong?  What if his choices are a disaster?  What if he manages to offend that prickly and overly defensive creature once again and sparks another horrible bout of fear-fueled anger that he doesn't have a hope in hell of coping properly with?  
  
 _'I've got to keep calm.  I've got to.  I have to remember that Severus is probably as freaked out as I am.  Probably more, because he's still expecting a prank while I already know for certain precisely what this is.  Nothing will go wrong as long as I remember that he's frightened.  He's afraid and he'll be suspicious.  He's not trying to hurt my feelings on purpose.  He's just protecting himself from me.'_

His wand vibrates in its holder, reminding him that it is almost five already and he takes a calming deep breath.  Casting one last worried look towards the mirror he consciously decides that this is the best he can do with his appearance.  He just hopes it's good enough for the stern creature he adores beyond both logic and control, beyond restraint.  
  
Double-checking that he has Severus' vest and sock in the pocket of his coat before he leaves, he proceeds to make a small half-turn right where he stands, swiftly removing himself from the familiar confines of his own bedroom and pushing across space towards the man who fills his every thought and guides his every emotion.  Towards the man who awaits him in the small front room of a specialized potions shop that stands at the corner of Diagon Alley.

He materializes into the small room that he'd envisioned with a soft pop, opening green eyes to the barely lit emptiness of a space clearly inhabited by shadows.  His right hand deposits the small dark bundle of clothing he'd brought atop the small counter-top that houses the shop's old fashioned till and he takes a look around, double checking the information that his senses have already given him but his mind is still refusing to process.  
  
Despite the fact that he grandfather clock that stands in magnificent splendor right next to the till has begun to chime the hour Severus is clearly absent from the room.  Harry's stomach churns with indecision and nerves, with the unpleasant notion that he may have been stood up.  Left to come here, eagerly seeking his chance to romance a man who'd never harbored the intention of allowing himself to be romanced by the likes of him.

The faint sound of a half-growled imprecation reaches his ears at that point, easing at least some of the anxiety that is so very slowly spreading through his every limb at once, like an insidious wave attempting to take over his body and drown it without mercy.  His gaze rakes the empty room with renewed focus, finally zeroing in on the small, rickety door that stands half-opened just behind the bulky mass of the gigantic clock.

“ _So that's were you are hiding.”_ Five determined steps forwards take him right to the doorjamb and he peers into what appears to be Severus' overly tidy office.  The man himself is standing in front of the huge bookcase that fills the entire back wall of the otherwise spartan space.  He's facing away from the door, clearly fidgeting with the fragile looking pages of the small book that he's holding in his potion-tainted hands.   
  
A loving smile curves Harry's lips in response to the visual confirmation of his earlier suspicious. Severus is nervous indeed.  He looks flustered and so clearly unnerved that Harry's own tension dissolves into a single determined thought:  
“ _There's no reason for this.  Neither of us should be trembling like a new-born calf at the idea of sharing a single platonic date.  We are both going to end the night smiling like a pair of teenage fools, if it's the last thing I do.”_

“I'm here, Severus.”  He whispers out loud, watching quietly as his voice reaches the other man as if in slow motion.  Gorgeous black eyes snap up towards him in the next second and he's left there, paralyzed by the clear trepidation that flashes through that gaze, unmasked.

“So you've come.  I wasn't sure if you would.  I...”

Harry hears the raw tone that gives life to every word, reads the crystal clear dismay flashing openly in those eyes and understands that, despite Severus' relief at seeing him finally here, a very large part of the man wishes he hadn't shown up.  That he'd been a fake.  A lying, hateful bastard.  The kind of simple threat that this hardened Slytherin would have known precisely how to deal with.

“You look wonderful, Severus.”  He interrupts the potioneer's words hastily, both unwilling and unable to cope with the idea of hearing any of those thoughts brought right out into the open, no matter how badly expressed.

Severus takes a step backwards.  His long fingers snap the book he's holding closed with a loud bang and he looks down towards it, refusing to meet his gaze and acknowledge the comment.  Refusing to take a single step closer or voice a similar sentiment.

Harry sighs in the strained silence, gathering as much of his patience as he can muster and decides to enter the office.  Walking determinedly towards the still, silent man who is clearly tracking his approach from the corner of his eyes.

“Look at me.”  He finally pleads once he stands right before that stern, lanky figure and the pale face that he adores raises ever so slowly, directing the full force of that gorgeous dark gaze into a full-on confrontation with his own. ”Everything is going to be alright, Severus.  You are going to enjoy yourself and you are going to be safe.  I promise.”

The tension holding those reedy shoulders so stiffly eases inch by inch as his companion tilts his head in elegant acknowledgment of his words of reassurance, and Harry watches him place his book fussily back on the bookcase, unconsciously caressing the old leather spine with the pad of his index finger as he pulls away from it, reminding Harry so strongly of the moment when that very same fingertip traced the line of his own exposed throat with equally distracted sensuality that his breath catches in his lungs and he has to bite his lower lip in order to avoid the thoroughly inappropriate groan that is trying its best to make it past his lips.

“Are you ready to leave?”  He asks slightly breathlessly and forces himself to smile as brightly as he can when Severus looks at him askance.

“Where, precisely, are you taking me, Potter?  You look awfully casual for the kind of full on 'date' I was expecting you to concoct.  I was under the impression that you wanted to pull out all the stops to avoid ' _mediocrity_ '.”

Harry's nerves are back with a bang and, although he laughs at the relatively gentle barb, he's way too anxious to cope with his beloved's usual snark.  
“Be nice, please.  I'm freaking out already, no matter how calm I may appear to you, and the last thing either of us needs right now is to end up tangled in a pointless argument out of habit.”

“Potter...”

“It's OK.  Just—let's move on, please, Severus.  I think we need to get out of here and allow our senses to take over.  We are both over-thinking this.”

His hand shoots out in the next blink, grabbing Severus' wrist with a slightly shaky grip and turning them both in place side by side.  The awful constriction of a full blown Side-Along-Apparation takes over his senses before he can worry any further about his companion's reaction to what could be quite easily constructed as shameless manhandling and, by the time his feet find solid purchase on the other side of the magical vortex they'd just passed through, he has more important things to focus on.  Like Severus' swift and clearly annoyed removal of that pale and breathtakingly slender wrist from all contact with his fingers or the disoriented look he casts around before frowning with crystal-clear puzzlement.

“Where the hell are w...?”   A small gasp of what Harry is sincerely hoping to be dazzled recognition rents the air as soon as that ebony-black gaze settles over the distinctive shape of the Belfry Tower, which is soaring towards the heavens in all its magnificently golden-lit glory directly in front of them, gorgeously framed by the backdrop of the amber-tainted pink sky that is so typical of continental sunsets in the middle of January.

“Bruges.  This is—dear Merlin, Potter, you've brought me all the way to Magical Bruges.  How in the name of Salazar did you even find out that I've always...?”  The puzzled question comes to a sudden halt, clearly betraying the fact that the man who'd been so freely voicing it has finally remembered his usual self-protective wariness and is attempting to hold back as much personal information as he can.

Harry doesn't care, though.  He's delighted with the wonder that is so clearly plastered all over Severus' pale visage.  He feels accomplished and happy, so relieved at having so obviously managed to both surprise and please his companion that his usual bold self-confidence begins to settle back over his shoulders, like a familiar winter cloak.   
“How did I know that you've always wanted to see Bruges?  You told me all about it once.  We were sitting together at the same table during the reception Draco hosted to celebrate his engagement and somehow the general conversation turned to suggesting places for the happy couple to spend their three week long winter honeymoon.   
  
"Everyone agreed that the most romantic destination to be found in the middle of January was a secluded tropical beach.  Everyone but you that is, Severus.  You spoke about the calm and peaceful atmosphere of this small magical city and described a picture you've seen long before on a travel brochure.  You mentioned how some enterprising half-blood had decided to replicate these very same cobbled streets and the tower before us when he set out to build the muggle version of this town.  You spoke of magical Bruges with the unconscious openness of a man who genuinely thought the place beautiful, with the longing of someone who desperately wished to see it.  That is one of my most precious memories of you.”

Severus turns to look at him with a slight frown.  The puzzled expression that is plastered all over his narrow face is unusually open, broadcasting his undeniable bewilderment in the glowing light coming off the tower.   
“How can you remember something I said so casually almost five years ago?”

“I remember everything you've ever told me since you came back to England.  You may have thought our brief encounters during one or other of Ginny's many soirees to be utterly casual, but the truth is that I've... lived... just for them for a very long time.  I've treasured every little moment of idle chit-chat that you've, no doubt, been forcing yourself to share with me out of politeness all along.  You mean everything to me.  Everything, Severus.”

“Potter...”

“It's alright.  You don't have to look so worried, my love.  I'm not going to pounce on you right in the middle of The Markt.  I'm not planning to pounce on you at all, unless you very clearly indicate that such advances will be welcome.  I'm on my best behavior, can't you see?  You only gave me one chance.”

A wave of crystal clear relief washes away Severus' wary expression in response to his attempt at lightening up the heavily emotional atmosphere that he'd so unwittingly created.  
“I remember your boasting that one chance was all you needed, Potter, so don't you dare going around whining about my miserly approach to fairness.”

This time Harry's laughter is both surprised and genuine.  He grins from ear to ear, raising a confident hand to pull Severus forwards by the elbow, looking for all intent and purposes like a happy young tourist eager to visit the fabled tower before him.  
“Oh, sush, you!  I'll have you know that my gorgeous Prince is anything but miserly.  He's the soul of fairness itself.  That's why he so magnanimously offered me one single chance to prove I can dazzle him.  He knows perfectly well that I've no need of further chances and doesn't want to upset me with the implication that I'll need more time than that.  One chance for me to show him what I'm actually made of sounds fair enough to me.”

Severus smiles at the shameful boasting despite himself, feeling surprisingly comfortable as he allows the seeker's eager tugging to pull him across the last few steps of The Markt's square towards the Belfry's entrance.  
“Don't be so shameless, Potter.  Next you'll be telling tell me that your soul is golden indeed.”

Gorgeous green eyes focus on him with carefree delight and the brat has the audacity to smile cheekily at him, flashing him a picture that's all dimples, white teeth, messy hair and the simple charm of unfettered joy.  
“Of course I'm golden from head to foot, Severus.  I'm quite shocked that you doubt it.  Haven't you been paying attention to the silly names they've given me over the years?  I've always had a rather creepy feeling regarding the Wizarding World's obsession with all things golden.  It's like no other metal matters and no other jewel has value.  I can actually see myself in silver.  Even more importantly, I can see _you_ in silver.”

“I don't think it's appropriate to talk about jewelry on our first date, Potter.  Please do not make the mistake of getting ahead of yourself.”

Harry's confident steps falter and he comes to a sudden halt right in the middle of the tower's lobby.  Tourists walk right around them, hurrying to join the swiftly moving lines of visitors climbing up the steep staircase that leads to the top of the building and its breathtaking views.  A pair of deep emerald eyes settle over him with sudden sobriety, studying his pale face intently, as if that is all it takes for their owner to be able to read him like a book or a magazine.  As if he's a puzzle mastered long ago, but never quite forgotten.  A mystery that marvels rather than intrigues.  A source of constant thought and reflection that almost always inspires some sort of peaceful, deep emotion.  
  
“You are right, of course, Severus.  Please forgive my enthusiasm and don't take my shameless hints seriously.  I've got years of crazy dreams about us stored inside my head.  This is all too new for you, whereas I've been dating you in my head for a long time.  Everything I've seen in these last years, everywhere I've been, has been enjoyed with the imaginary reminder that I had to see this museum or go to that obscure little park in the middle of nowhere because you'd have wanted to see it, if you'd been there with me.  I can't visit a robe store or even read the newspaper without wondering what would draw your eye.  What you'd think about it.  What you'd enjoy the most.  Tonight I feel like I'm living one of my usual daydreams while being finally awake and I can see how fast I'm running way ahead of you, spooking you without actually meaning to do so.”

Severus looks away from the Gryffindor's eager face, idly wondering how on Earth he'd managed in the past to miss the obvious adoration flashing in those emerald-green eyes like a mile-wide beacon.  
“I'm never going to match whatever image of me you've created in your head, Potter.  I'm a man of flesh and blood.  I'm just _..._ me.”

“Yes.  You are you.  And you are everything I want, Severus.  The man I so often dream about is a pale image of you.  Not a better, shinier version.  You don't have to worry about disappointing me.  That's my job in this little drama.  I'm the one who must charm you as I am: a mere man of twenty five with more fame than substance to his name.  A boy with a past you don't particularly care for and a job you probably think worthless.  I'd say I have more reasons to feel insecure than you'll ever have, at least with regards to me.”

Severus frowns:  
“That's ridiculous, Potter.  You are...”

“Let's not bring The-Boy-Who-Lived here, please, Severus.  Let's leave that blasted mask back home, where it belongs.  I don't want to ruin our first date with all that baggage.  I have a wonderful evening planned out, my love.   
  
"I want to take you up to the tower, so that we can feast our eyes on the gorgeous sight of magical Bruges extended like a small fairy-tale land right beneath our feet.  I want to share with you my first taste of the typical dinner of mussels and beer that's traditional here.  I want to stroll through the moon-lit park on the other side of town after dinner hand in hand, Severus, and when we reach the end of the first winter garden I want to catch one of those palomino-driven carriages and have it ride us along the canals all the way back here.   
  
"I want to end this date sharing a freshly made chocolate waffle while we sit on the steps of the Basilica, watching the world go by together. I want to lose myself here with you, Severus, and leave behind all those things that may threaten the peaceful night I've envisioned.  Please, _please_ , let's not talk about Harry Potter and Severus Snape anymore tonight, I'm begging you.  Let's just be Severus and Harry, together at long last, with no last names to haunt us.”

The Slytherin's wary expression softens ever so slightly.  Black eyes fill with a faraway look that betrays the very same sort of wistful longing that Harry is pretty sure must be painted across his own features.  He realizes in that second that their date will be a success.  Whether he's conscious of it or not Severus' heart is also longing for the sort of evening he'd just described and he is, at this very moment, attempting to envision it with his mind's eye.  They've found common ground at long last.  This is something they can share.  Something that unites them.  Something  they both long for and will be able to enjoy together.

“Severus?”  Harry whispers his companion's name in a tone gone soft with gentleness.  His hand dares to settle once again over a spindly forearm and a sigh of sheer relief escapes his slightly chapped lips when those unfathomable black eyes focus on him once more with a fierce sort of hunger peeping cautiously out from deep within.

“Fair enough.  Let's go up to the tower and kick-start this date of ours, then.  If you are able to deliver even half of what you're promising I may have to agree with your shameless boasting and admit that you are not the kind of man who squanders his chances.  At least not on your first dates _..._ _Harry._ ”

The soft twinkle of his own laughter precedes them up the stairs and Harry can't help but grin from ear to ear as he watches Severus roll his eyes with fake dismay.  An impious mood settles over him and he surrenders to it joyfully, smiling ever so cheekily at his companion before informing him boldly:  
“I'm not the sort of man who'll squander his chances on his second date, either.”

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8.**

  
  
Severus wakes to the insistent tap-taping of an owl's beak against his windowpane.  He blinks blearily into the dawn's soft white light, frowning at the bird with sleepy displeasure.  The persistent creature refuses to be quiet, so he pushes his warm blankets away and steps into the unpleasantly cold morning air.

His bare feet sweep across the freezing-cold wooden floorboards and he swears under his breath, reminding himself for the millionth time this winter to either add a seasonal warming charm to the floor or get a bloody rug.  The owl catches sight of him and stops its awful racket, alighting gracefully on the narrow windowsill in order to wait patiently for him to open the latch.

A few seconds later he's left all alone once more in his small, tidy bedroom.  His toes are beginning to freeze, but he's been nailed to the spot by the fact that the note nestling harmlessly in his hand hasn't come from a business associate, as he'd initially assumed.  It's not a message from Draco, either.  It is a note from Harry.

His long fingers twitch reflexively around the rolled up missive and his breath hitches loudly in the eerie quiet as his mind bombards him with flash after flash of different and increasingly hurtful possibilities regarding the unknown contents of this letter.

Their date has been a success as far as he's concerned.  He'd been initially apprehensive about how it would go, but had ended up being pleasantly surprised by Harry's easy acceptance of his many little hang ups.  The fact that they'd dined in a small, casual establishment instead of the kind of ostentatious bistro he'd been dreading had made the evening all the more relaxing in his opinion. Less like a properly romantic dinner date and more like the beginning of a tentative friendship.

The food had been simple but gloriously tasty, and their stroll through a deserted winter-frosted park, just afterwards, had been equally pleasant.  He'd balked at Harry's desire to hold his hand as they walked side by side, but had been unceremoniously ignored, and so it was that he'd ended up taking his first hand in hand romantic stroll -ever- in the middle of Magical Bruges at forty five years of age.  
  
"Talk about being a late bloomer, Severus."He whispers under his breath, flinching ever so slightly when that bitter acknowledgment shatters the heavy silence that surrounds him with the shocking power of most thoroughly unwelcome truths. 

His dark eyes close ever so slowly and he sighs into the returning quiet with a defeated sort of heaviness.  He's barely woken up and he 's already tired  to the bone  of th is  newborn  day.   He's t ired of this  morning that  has barely begun .   Tired of the fear that the very sight of th e small note  he's just received has managed to create within him.   He's tired of  feeling this unbearable  paranoia  and the damaging  self-pity  that is ruining the first instant in years wh en  receiving an owl at first light doesn't immediately translate to either another business deal notification or Draco's most recent attempt to keep an eye on him.  He's  t ired of being the sort of man who has more regrets than joy in his  day to day life.   T he kind who'll create those regrets even when there's no reason  whatsoever for him to have any.  The kind who  throws away  his  chance s out of  simple insecurity.

Harry Potter has been nothing short of the most perfect date he's ever had.  He'd been attentive, friendly, and utterly charming.  The Gryffindor had behaved in such gentleman-like manner at every stage of their date that he'd been both shocked and delighted in equal measure.  He'd arrived home last night feeling hopeful about something for the first time in ages and now, faced with this thoroughly unexpected little note in the cold light of morning, he can't cope with the idea of allowing himself to return to the ugly reality of the world he's been inhabiting all his life.

No matter how loudly his heart tells him to stop doubting the seeker until the man actually does something to deserve becoming the focus of his usual paranoid suspicion, his mind keeps reminding him that romantic dates in Bruges with the most dazzling hero the Wizarding World can possibly lay claim to are just not the kind of thing that happens to him.  Ever.

He's never had luck like this in anything, least of all when it comes to his rather abysmal love-life and, despite how hard he's trying to hold on to the fragile sense of trust that filled him just last night, the truth is that he can't suppress the thought that if Potter's plan has been to trick him all along and expose him for the deluded old fool that he most certainly is, then this is definitely the perfect moment for the brat to start pointing a laughing finger in his direction before proceeding to peel off his lying mask.  This would be the right time to expose the ugly truth that hides beneath the wonderful evening they shared last night.  This would be the most wounding method of informing him, once and for all, of just how badly he'd been had.  Of telling him precisely how successfully he's been duped into allowing another cocky Gryffindor bastard to expose him as a pathetic loser.

His Adam's apple travels up and down the long line of his throat, pulled as if through a jerkily held cord by his constant attempts to swallow the bitter taste of the soul-breaking suspicion that its climbing up the back of his throat.  His eyes close and his head bows while his reedy shoulders hunch slightly forwards and he fights against the growing certainty that his foolish dream of love may have been so ridiculously short-lived.  
  
 _'No.  It can't be.  This is Potter you are talking about, Severus.  Potter can't lie with any sort of conviction.  His acting skills are so abysmal that he wouldn't have been able to fake the sort of outright devotion he showed you last night.  Whatever this note says, it's not a hurtful goodbye.  You know it can not be.  That wouldn't make any sense...'_

“Oh, for Heaven's sake!”  He finally sighs explosively, growing beyond annoyed with himself as he forces his freezing feet to walk back towards the comforting warmth of his rumpled bed.  He plops wearily among his blankets, puling on the heavy quilt until it falls over his exposed toes and shivering legs, burying himself waist-deep in the still warm layers before returning his attention to the letter.

He supposes he could look at it without opening it until the bloody cows come home but whatever it contains  won't actually disappear, and his self-protective Slytherin instincts keep reminding him of the fact that knowing your enemy's plans as soon as they are hatched usually helps you minimize the damage they will cause you.  
  
“Get a fucking grip, man.  Po—Harry is _not_ your enemy.  He's never been your enemy.  You fought on the same side during the war.  He's Ginevra's dearest friend.  A charming youth who has shown you nothing but respect in the last few years.  There's no reason to be afraid.  He's probably written something maddeningly mushy.  He's a Gryffindor, after all.  Everybody knows that Gryffindors tend to be sickeningly sentimental when they are infatuated.”

A wary sigh rents the air as his dark eyes contemplate the rolled up piece of parchment with downright trepidation.  He's inexplicably afraid of what it may contain, utterly reluctant to be proven right either way.  There's a giant part of him almost praying for it to bring this madness to a swift end.  He's hoping with all the might of his cowardly little heart for Potter's fantastic promises to be nothing but a cleverly constructed deception.  He'll be wounded by the boy's vindictiveness for a while, but he'll feel better in the end and a hell of a lot safer.  He'll feel relieved too.  And vindicated.  He'll be able to go back to his dreary little life, accepting its tedious patterns with the self-consoling reassurance that he'd been right all along.  He'd tried reaching out for more, but it hadn't been meant for him.  It had all ended up being a bright mirage, a hurtful lie.  A fragile little dream that hadn't been strong enough to withstand the harsh light of reality. 

Returning to his hopelessly lonely existence doesn't frighten him as much as the idea of having actual confirmation of Potter's sincerity does.  He'll be forced to acknowledge a lifetime worth of ruthlessly suppressed longing then.  He'll have to recognize that he's mad enough to honestly desire love.  He'll have no other option but to look at the world in the face and expose his fragility before all and sundry, because Potter is _Potter_.  The blasted golden Savior of The Wizarding World, himself.  He's adored and revered.  Treated like a goddamned messiah wherever he goes.  How on Earth will he actually cope with having everyone laugh raucously at the very notion that he's be crazy enough to believe himself worthy of such companion?  How will he cope with the vicious public scorn that such unequal association will bring forth?  How can he possibly keep his precious dignity intact once he's finally forced to come out of the relative anonymity of his safe little life in order to face everyone's reaction to their —their...

“ _Courtship_ , Severus. You might as well call it what it is. Po—Harry wants to court you.  He's made that perfectly clear and, if this note contains some sort of ridiculously sappy recollection of last night's dinner date then you'll have to make up your mind about what to do, won't you?  You'll have to either go on forwards or halt this madness in it's tracks and remain forever static.  You'll have to choose between becoming Albus' mis-sorted little Gryffindor or the wary Slytherin you believe yourself to have been all along.  You'll have to make the kind of decision that will change your future forever, one way or the other.” He forces that terrifying truth out into the open, growling it into rebellious existence with a reckless sort of fierceness.  The words shatter the quiet that surrounds him and he listens to them intently, refusing to allow himself the small comfort of flinching as the terrifying idea sinks slowly into his psyche.   
  
He finally gathers enough strength to slide the very tip of his potion-tainted index finger under the blue ribbon that keeps the parchment firmly curled into a roll, pulling the small cord loose with visibly trembling hands.  He unrolls the thick paper, flattening it slowly as he forces himself to take just one last shuddering breath before directing his dark gaze down towards the familiarly messy script that he immediately recognizes from the million and one essays he must have corrected during the brat's school years.

_-Good morning, my prince:_

_Please forgive the mushy nickname as one of those incomprehensible Gryffindor quirks and allow me to use it in the foreseeable future.  I've always yearned for the freedom of calling you by a name that is only mine to use._

_I know you'll argue that very few people call you Severus, but still...  That name belongs to Albus Dumbledore's portrait and Minerva Mcgonagal.  To Poppy Pomfrey and Molly Weasley.  To Ginny, Shacklebolt and Arthur.  To all of those who love you as a friend but will never adore you like I do._

_I realize that your feelings towards me are nothing beyond a startled sort of curiosity.  I understand that you've never thought about me on romantic terms before but I'm sincerely hoping that last night allowed you to see how very well suited for each other we actually are.  We could be perfect together, Severus.  We could be the end of each other's solitude._

_I went to sleep with a smile on my face and woke, just now, with your name on my lips.  I'm wishing you were here so hard that I couldn't help myself and ended up writing you this note just to say good morning._

_I bet you are thinking I'm crazy right now.  And I wonder if you'll bother to answer this note at all.  You've never responded to any of the others, so I'm guessing that you won't.  I suppose an answer to this isn't really necessary.  I'm just rambling idiotically at you, I know, but...  It'd be nice to receive one anyway.  It'd be a relief to have some sort of confirmation that I didn't dream up last night and that you actually enjoyed our date as much as I did.  
  
You agreed to give me one chance and I know that I promised to walk away if you weren't convinced at the end of it.  So I feel I must ask you this one question, even though the very idea of doing such a thing is making my gut churn with the most terrible dread.  Are you willing to let me woo you further, Severus?  Should I plan our second date or should I_ __... let go?

_Please, do not let yourself walk away from us in response to fear.  I'm as scared as you are, I swear.  But happiness never knocks on a door that's firmly closed.  Why would it?  It has enough work to do as it is without wasting time on lost causes._

_Anyway, I just wanted to wish you a good morning, my dear prince.  Have a wonderful day, Severus.  I'll be thinking about you every second, every minute and every hour, all day long._

_Yours always._   
_Harry.-_

Severus blinks as he reads the entire thing a second time, just to make sure that Potter actually wrote exactly what he thinks he read on his first go and a sudden, aching knot of sheer emotion settles on his chest like a huge boulder.  He's never received a letter quite like this.  He's never been called _'my dear_ _p_ _rince'_ by anyone.  He's never been begged to think with his heart instead of his head.  He's never been told that he's... adored.

Potter's little note is making him feel exposed.  It's touching a part of him that has always remained hungry.  It's soothing a hurt that he'd never realized he's been carrying around inside and it's making him feel cared for in a way that doesn't involve his health or general well being.   
  
Potter is making a bold play for his heart and in this second, seating quietly among his pile of blankets while re-reading the seeker's letter for the third time with disbelieving wide eyes, he feels unreasonably delighted.  He feels charmed into smiling with unfamiliar fondness at the messily scripted parchment that he's holding while his heart pounds a mile a minute and a loud, dizzying roar thunders mightily in his ears.  He feels precisely like a man who has just received the first love-letter of his life ought to feel and the rush of terrified excitement that is making him shift restlessly in his warm nest of blankets is exactly the kind of emotion that he's never felt before, but has always longed to experience.  
  
"This is madness.  You are a dammed little bastard, Potter.  You wrote all this on purpose.  You must have known that I wouldn't be able to walk away from you after reading this letter.  How could I?  This is precisely what I've always wanted and you've just given it to me on a silver platter."  He groans under his breath just as he finally manages to drag his widened gaze away from the slightly crumpled note in order to stare blankly into empty space with throat-drying trepidation.  
  
He's literally bubbling with so many overwhelming emotions that he can't begin to unravel the nature of them all.  He's aware that he's ecstatic, relieved, dazed and afraid in equal measure.  He feels hopeful and wary at the same time, reckless enough to grab his wand on a whim and summon a piece of parchment and a quill from the desk that sits in the corner of his room before deciding to pen a simple enough response that may not be quite as verbose as Harry's syrupy missive, but he hopes will convey at least some of his growing... regard... with equal clarity:

_-Good morning to you too, Harry._

_I remember your shameless boast about not being the kind of man who squanders his second chances either.  So I challenge you to deliver what you so confidently promised._

_Thank you for a wonderful date and... for this letter.   I've never received the likes of it before and the experience wasn't completely unwelcome, despite the overflowing Gryffindor sentimentality._

_Kind regards  
Severus_ _-_  
   
His eyes rake over those few sentences as he sits back against his pillows for a single doubt-filled moment.  Can he really afford to walk down the road he'll have to travel if he allows himself the recklessness necessary to send this?  Will he be able to live with his own cowardice if he doesn't?  Does he really want to risk so much for something that may never work, anyway?  Potter and himself... it sounds utterly ridiculous, doesn't it?  But it doesn't feel ridiculous at all.  It feels wonderful and frightening.  It feels _right_ , somehow, against all the odds.  It feels like he's finally found something worth fighting for.  Something valuable and clean.  Something... pure.   
  
He scrambles off the bed and rushes towards his desk, searching inside the top-most drawer for one of his distinctive black ribbons.  He curls his response into a small and tidy tube, binding it deftly close before summoning his massive horned owl with a single snap of his potion-tainted fingers.   
  
"Take this message to Harry Potter."  He addresses the animal clearly, unlocking the window in the next second with a sharp wave of his wand and watching Hermes fly off into the early morning sky in search of the only man who's ever dared to call him _'my prince'_ to his face, at least in writing.  
  
"I must be mad."  He whispers into the eerie quiet left behind by his departing bird and can't suppress the small shiver of terror that runs down the entire length of his spine as he closes the window and stands beside it, staring thoughtfully up at the gray clouds that have just swallowed the lighting-fast shape of his owl and wishing with all his heart to have made the right choice at long last.  Praying to have finally found the right hands to place his wounded faith into and desperately hoping that Harry Potter has the actual ability to deliver everything he's promised.  
  



	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9.**

 

Harry watches Severus prowl up and down the waist-high rows crammed full of softly swaying blooms through worried green eyes.  Although the Slytherin had seemed relatively calm when he'd showed up at his shop in order to make good on his promise to deliver another semi-public, yet private enough, second date he's been clearly on edge since they arrived at their destination.

Watching him turn the corner restlessly a few paces ahead of him Harry bites his lower lip with growing unease, wondering for the hundredth time in the last half hour if bringing the other man here has been an awful mistake.  He'd thought long and hard about going to the theater instead, but had ended up deciding against it out of respect for Severus' expressed desire to avoid being in the public eye as much as humanly possible and now he can't help the unwelcome suspicion that, by trying to indulge his beloved's wish for privacy, he may have ended up disappointing him with his choice of venue.   
  
“Is there something wrong with this place, Severus?  You look restless and... annoyed. I assumed that you'd appreciate seeing so many medicinal plants under a single, weather-controlled roof, but now I'm not so sure about that.  I was trying to give you something I thought you'd enjoy while keeping our outing private.  Not many people realize that these hothouses are open year-round so we have the place mostly to ourselves, in case you are worrying about that.”

Those reedy black-clad shoulders shift uncomfortably as their owner finally stops his anxious pacing, coming to a sudden halt directly in front of a profusion of white orchids with strangely frayed petals.   
“I've never seen one of these outside a book.”  Severus mutters out loud, obviously attempting to offer him some sort of oblique apology for his current behavior without having to actually explain the source of his discomfort and Harry's heart sinks all the way down to his toes.

“We don't have to stay here if you don't like the place, my love.  I've messed up, somehow, and I'm sorry that my choice has managed to upset you so much.  We could still make it to the theater if we leave right now.  I'm pretty sure they'll ignore our casual attire and whip up a couple of last minute tickets for the great Harry Potter and his guest, if we show enough contrition.”

Despite his expectation to the contrary Severus doesn't receive his apologetic offer as well as he expects him to and he ends up frowning with puzzled anxiety as he watches that usually pale face acquire a distinct green sheen while those black eyes darken even further with crystal clear guilt when they finally settle over him.   
“No.  There's no need to relocate at all.  I—This isn't the kind of place I expected you to take me and I'm having a hard time coming to terms with the idea that you know me way too well for my comfort, Po—Harry.”

Relief floods Harry's quivering form from the top of his head all the way down to his toes and he smiles with delighted glee, approaching his companion slowly enough to avoid startling him into further retreat but with far more confidence than he'd dared to show since their arrival.  
“Did you really think you'd managed to hide your encyclopedic knowledge of flowers successfully?  I'm sorry to burst your bubble, my prince, but you tend to be rather obvious in your passions.  Listening to any conversation between Narcissa Malfoy and you about the state of her greenhouse blooms would put professor Sprout in a estate of pure bliss.  I'd bet you know the actual name of most of these plants.  Even that flower you can't stop admiring looks to me like another gorgeous, if odd, little orchid but I bet you know exactly what its called.  You probably know a hell of a lot more than that about it, don't you?”

Severus' breath hitches just as Harry finally reaches him, coming to a halt beside his tall and flustered figure.  There is a visible blush painting those elegant cheekbones a delicate shade of pink and his dark haired Slytherin looks both wary and strangely uncertain, almost like a doe posed on the very verge of flight.  A frightened creature who hasn't yet decided whether it should take the first leap away from danger or remain exactly where it is.  
“It's called the White Egret or Habenaria Radiata, if you want the exact name, Harry.  This orchid is endemic to Japan and it's often associated with the idea of loss.  There is an old legend that claims the White Egret to be the flower one should offer only to those who are expected to be lost forever, never to return back to whichever place they got it from or whoever gave it to them.  This is a symbol of goodbye.  A small homage to all those things that... fly... away." 

Harry  swallows his unease and looks down towards the delicate stalks topped with small, bird-shaped flowers, wondering why Severus' mind has chosen to fix on these particular blooms even as he lifts a single fingertip to touch a small ragged-looking petal with careful gentleness.   
" It's a beautiful form of goodbye, I think.  Not that it really matters all that much, since I suppose that if you care enough about someone to give him them one of these, something inside you must be praying all along for your hunch to be proven wrong."

" I tried to conjure one of this flowers once.  I wanted to give it to Albus before he left on that useless last trip of his.  I still remember the relief I felt when the transfiguration didn't take.  I was stupid enough to convince myself that, since I hadn't been able to give it to him, it must mean that he was bound to return to Hogwarts."

Harry's throat closes tight at the pain so clearly turning that smooth, gorgeous voice into a harsh hissed rumble.  His fingers tense under the fragile-looking petal and he moves them swiftly away and out of sight, closing them into a small, white-knuckled fist in order to avoid making a grab for Severus' shaking arm.    
"He did return, my love.  He didn't die away from home."  He finally whispers softly, aching all the way down to his bones with the instinctive desire to gather that tall and lanky frame and plaster it against his own pounding heart with as much gentleness as he can possibly muster.  Eager to offer his clearly hurting beloved all the comfort that he's so willing to give him but is pretty darned certain won't be particularly well received at the moment.

"He died, anyway.  He didn't even make it into the castle."  Severus reminds him quietly and there's something so very fragile about the way in which he holds himself so rigidly straight that Harry can't help comparing him once again to a young, wary and wounded doe.  He's so hesitant to come forth, so very afraid and reluctant to accept comfort, so breakable in his beauty.  


" Maybe we should buy a handful of these.  You could lay them on his tomb the next time you visit him.  I'm sure he'll be chuffed to be given  a  poetic Japanese goodbye.  He was always a bit of a showman, that old coot."

Severus' dark eyes settle over the small flowers with thoughtful intensity.  Delicate white fingertips trace the small winged petals as he admits with raw-toned ferocity:   
"I was so furious with him that I wanted to hit him.  We fought like crup and kneazle the last time I ever saw him.  I never had the chance to say goodbye properly.  I —It was the same with your mother, too.  I'm pretty terrible at this sort of thing, Potter.  Telling someone I care about how much they mean to me seems as impossible as trying to build Hogwarts single-handedly."

The moment hangs between them as they stand side by side, watching those ragged little flowers through sorrow-filled eyes.  They have managed to share part of their painful past in a way that Harry knows Severus Snape hasn't had all that many chances to experience before now.  It must be terrifying for a man as formal and usually reticent as his companion tends to be to have opened quite so much to another human soul.  Harry's heart feels both heavy and grateful in equal measure.  He's both breathless and shaken by the unexpected turn that his planned picnic date in a beautiful but isolated Scottish hothouse garden has just taken.  He feels happy and sad and hopeful for their future in a way that he hasn't  found the courage to  dare feel ing before now, because he knows that whatever has happened to make his companion decide that he's trustworthy enough to keep so many of his secrets safe will also grant him access to a thousand other carefully guarded thoughts and feelings.  To a thousand little quirks that this man doesn't ever share freely.  He's been finally granted access to the shy creature he's been glimpsing as if through a hazy glass these last few years.  He has entered the small and exclusive club of those who've earned the right to actually _see_ the real face of one of the greatest spies who has ever lived.  


Golden-toned fingers seek and curl around potion-tainted ones while his green eyes raise ever so slowly to stare right into the ebony-colored depths of Severus' widened gaze.   
"You could start with hello, my prince.  There's no reason to go all the way down to goodbye with most people and the things that go in the middle will either come to you at the right moment or be assumed by those of us who adore you just as you are.  I bet Draco doesn't care about the fact that you very rarely -if ever- tell him that you love him , but I've seen the two of you together and, trust me, Severus, your care for him shines through despite your lack of words.  Professor Dumbledore knew how you felt about him and so did my mother, too.  You've got no reason to regret never having been given the chance to tell them goodbye to their faces."

Severus' hand grip s his for a brief second before the man pulls it hastily away.   He tak es  a rattled deep breath and a single step backwards, break ing eye contact with him to  gaze around the empty hothouse with crystal-clear discomfort.   
"You are a strange mixture of perception and boldness, Po —Harry.  I have the  uneasy certainty that you can read me like a book most of the time.  It's... disconcerting."

"So I know you have a heart and  genuinely l ik e flowers.  There's no reason for any of that to be a state secret, Severus.  There's no reason for you to look so unsettled by my awareness of it, either.  You know a hell of a lot about me, too."

"But you've always been an open book whereas I have spent most of my life trying to hide my thoughts away.  Feeling this exposed makes me nervous."

"Is that why you were pacing up and down the flowerbeds like a caged hippogriff?  You gave me the fright of my life.  I thought I had botched our date, you, git!"

"I'm sorry.  I've already told you that I'm pants at this sort of thing.   I wish I hadn't gone all emotional on you just now, but trying to keep my response to your choice of venue under wraps seems to have made it all the more difficult for me to cope with the unexpected sight of the White Egret. " 

"That's alright.  I'm not perfect at  this either  and I'd rather you allow yourself to show whatever emotions you are feeling at any given time than watch you struggle to keep them all bottled up and hidden from my sight.  Getting to know one another is the entire point of courtship, Severus."

" I could argue that you already know me better than most people."   The slytherin  tells him with a small chuckle and Harry's mild  sense of disquiet evaporates like morning dew in the presence of sunshine.

" I don't know you nearly as well as I wish to, my love.  But I'm hoping you'll keep on letting me stick around for long enough to learn precisely what makes you tick."

Thoughtful dark eyes settle over him for a long second, studying his face intently in the unforgiving light of the bright Lumos spell that illuminates the hothouse despite the fact that the natural light of the winter evening faded hours ago.   
  
"I'd like to learn what makes you tick, too, Harry Potter."  Severus finally whispers into the quiet that surrounds them and Harry has the sudden certainty that the comment is more p ledge than statement.  More  vow than simple remark.  More promise than the assertion of a desire for further knowledge.  His heart swells with the deep elation of sudden and undeniable hope and he can't stop himself from smiling right up into his companion's narrow face with the kind of radiance that sends one of the Slytherin's elegant eyebrows climbing up across his lily-white forehead in puzzled demand for the kind of clarification that he's thoroughly delighted to offer:  


"I thought you'd never ask, my prince."  
   
  


 


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10.**

  
Severus plops on one of the many benches dotted along the walk-around path that runs along the Serpentine (*) with a low groan and closes his dark eyes against the sharp light of the bright January afternoon.  
“I'll never be able to even look at chocolate again.  Not ever again, Potter.”

Harry reaches his side in the next second, takes a seat right next to him and laughs with crystal-clear delight.  
“You wanted to know what makes me tick, Severus, and I've waited a veritable eternity to be allowed to indulge your every desire.”

Severus groans once again.  The sound is heartfelt, low-toned and so quiet that it's barely even noticeable, but it makes Potter gasp so loudly that he opens his eyes with a startled little jolt and looks around them inquiringly, attempting to identify what, precisely, has elicited that thoroughly unexpected sound from his companion.  
“What's the matter?  Is there someone you recognize around here?  Do you think we are being followed?”

The Gryffindor's response to his understandable alarm is a rather puzzling bout of nearly hysterical laughter that catches him by surprise, so he abandons his careful appraisal of their surroundings in order to fix his puzzled gaze upon the seeker's inexplicably flushed expression instead.  
“What on Salazar's sweet Earth is wrong with you, Potter?”

His companion refuses to look him in the eye even as he throws a rather weak smile in his general direction before shaking his left leg with enough force to draw Severus' attention to the oddly uncoordinated motion.  
“There's nothing wrong with me, Severus.  I had a bad cramp, that's all.  This cold January wind doesn't agree with me much and I just sat on a frozen bench without bothering to cast a warming charm first.  My coach would have had my head for it, if he'd seen me.”

“Oh!”  Severus gasps, uncertain of the sincerity of that explanation but thoroughly unable to imagine what else the Gryffindor could be trying to hide from him while they are both so far away from home.  “We could leave, if you want.  I'm so used to the cold environment of basement laboratories and dungeon classrooms that I no longer react to the unpleasant contact of frosted surfaces.”

“No.  No, please.  I was enjoying how relaxed you looked a minute ago.  I can't remember ever hearing you whine about anything so much before.  It's really cute.”

"Cute?  I'm not cute.  And I wasn't whining, Potter.  Slytherins are physically incapable of whining, that's a Hufflepuff trait.  I was actually dying right here, on this bench, before your leg cramp interrupted me so rudely."

Harry laughs with delight and shakes his messy head from side to side.  
“I knew you were going to love that chocolate tour.  As soon as I realized that the elves at the manor kept serving you the most outrageous chocolate concoctions that I've ever seen every single time you were over there for dinner I came to the conclusion that you must be some sort of closet chocoholic.  
  
"I promised myself to bring you out here one day and watch you eat sample after sample of every single piece of the most delicious chocolate that's on sale on the poshest side of London these days.  I figured you'd be able to order as much stuff from Honeyduke's special selections as you like, but this would be something a little bit more... exotic.  The historical facts about the different stores and the people who runs them that are also part of the tour provided that extra pizzazz that I was certain you'd enjoy.”

Severus groans again at the memory of precisely how much chocolate he's eaten.  He has no problem recognizing that he enjoyed every single second of their tour.  The trip has been a wonderful surprise.  Something that he hadn't even been aware was possible to do as an activity in muggle London and he certainly doesn't regret his decision to trust Harry's insistent reassurances that closing his shop on a Saturday morning in order to accompany him on another mystery date -to a fully muggle destination, no less- was going to be worth his while.  
  
It has been worth it.  Of course it has been.  Potter's activity of choice had first surprised him and then driven him to such absurd levels of unfettered delight that he has spent the entirety of the morning grinning like an old and ugly fool.  But now, seating for the first time in his memory on one of the hundreds of benches dotted along Hyde Park in the company of a gorgeous man who seems genuinely interested in him romantically, Severus finds himself unable to care all that much about whatever amount of dignity he's allowed himself to lose in the course of their outing.  
  
Harry has been equally buoyant during their tour, smiling constantly at everyone and everything with the gleeful satisfaction of a man who has managed to dazzle him not only with the sheer amount of chocolate to be tasted -and learn new things about- but also with this new and undeniable proof of how much emotional investment the Gryffindor seems willing to pour onto their budding relationship.  
  
It's plain to see how much effort the seeker has been putting into each and every single one of their planned outings.  How much attention he must have been paying to Severus' every action, voiced opinion and response to literally everything in the last couple of years in order to have gathered such varied and absolutely spot on knowledge of his likes and dislikes.  Of his seldom referred to hobbies.  Of his day to day routines and the real nature of both his affections towards others and the closely guarded vulnerable spots of his suspicious personality.

Thinking logically about it Severus realizes that he should be feeling a lot more threatened than he does.  He remembers feeling that way at the beginning of Harry's pursuit, but now everything is changing so swiftly and so consistently that he can't help but marvel at the smoothness with which they seem to click together.

“Severus?  Are you alright?  You must have gone a million miles away from here...”  Harry's gloved hand settles over his forearm suddenly, dragging his wandering attention right back to their shared park bench.  He blinks slowly, as if waking from a pleasant -if short- daydream and allows his gaze to settle over the winter-gray surface of the huge body of water so pleasantly displayed before him.  
  
He drinks in the soothing peacefulness of being able to just watch the rest of the world walk or jog slowly past them without having it attempt to intrude inside the small private bubble that he shares with his companion.  The few people dotted about are so utterly uninterested in the fact that they're together that they can't be bothered to pry into whatever reasons brought them here or what, precisely, they are saying to one another."

“I'm just wondering how on Earth you managed to come across a London-based chocolate tour.  I've seen what Draco's elves bring for you, too.  Treacle Tart and Pecan Pie, if I remember correctly.  You are a man of syrupy taste, Mr. Potter.  I can't recall ever seeing you eat a proper dessert.”

“Chocolate is not a dessert.  It's candy, Severus.”  Potter points out, grinning from ear to ear at the outraged expression that such scandalous remark must have brought to his pale face.  ”Never mind that.  I'm not going to argue with you over the true nature of chocolate, my prince.  The point is that I've been dying to drag you here since I came across the group on one of my Saturday morning outings.  I often wander around muggle London during the weekend.  It's a relaxing way to spend my free time, since nobody knows me here and I can do what I like without having to look constantly over my shoulder, checking for the presence of camera-wielding journalists.”

Severus shivers visibly as the idea of what awaits him once they make their relationship public hits him with more force than ever before.  
“I'm honestly dreading the three-ring circus that my life will most likely become once our association goes public.  I've never had the most suitable disposition to dealing with members of the press in general and they despise me probably as much as I detest them, if not more.  
  
"They are going to relish being given the opportunity to rip my character to shreds under the guise of informing their readers of my moral unsuitability to become your romantic partner.  They'll rake up bucketfuls of the most unpleasant facts that my colorful past has to offer and delight in the task of presenting them in the blackest light possible in order to sink my battered reputation lower than it already is, if that's possible.  They'll...”

“Hey... hey... Nobody is going to harm either you or your reputation in any way, I swear.  I'm here for you, Severus, and I'm no Dumbledore.  I'm not my mother, either.  I protect the people I love and that most certainly includes you.  I'm not going to let anybody get away with hurting you.  Not the press.  Not my fans.  Not the members of my family and other assorted friends.  You will be safe in every possible meaning of the word, I promise.”

“You won't be able to deliver that safety, Harry.  I've been around long enough to know precisely how the world outside my limited social circle sees me.  I'm a two-faced turncoat at best and a cunning Death-Eater who literally got away with murder at worst.  No one is going to want that kind of scum anywhere near you.  Attempting to deny that simple fact is foolish.”

Harry's hand slides so very gently down his forearm until those gloved fingertips find his own, squeezing them briefly in silent reassurance before pulling on them upwards, dragging his arm higher and higher.  Then Harry places a single, close-mouthed kiss over his leather-covered knuckles while he watches him do it with wide-eyed trepidation.  
  
Severus is strangely incapable of moving a single muscle, of pulling his hand away.  And so he sits there, mute and paralyzed by shocked surprise, while those lips press themselves onto the aged leather of his dragon-hide glove and his heart begins to pound a mile a minute, pushing the blood that runs inside his veins into a veritable whirling that rushes through his entire body with the speed of a hurricane sweeping through the coast.  
  
He is unable to feel the touch of those pink lips on his skin trough the layer that protects it against the winter cold, but he watches as the contact is both initiated and carried through, becoming undeniable reality.  The image of that innocent touch that he sees, but can not feel, does something odd and frightening to him.  He feels that kiss all the way down to his bones.  Feels it like a touch that's meant to brand him far more permanently than the Dark Mark ever did and he blinks in utter shock, reacting purely on instinct as he tightens his own fingers over Harry's trembling ones in the next second.  
  
“What are you doing to me?”  He whispers in a small and frantic tone, attempting to understand what's happening, what's changing.  What's making every hair on the back of his neck stand on end and every muscle in his body feel as if he's been suddenly turned to wobbly jelly.

Green eyes settle over him with tender devotion and those lips that have just branded him with their quiet little kiss smile at him gently.  
“I'm trying to love you with every breath I take.  I'm not doing anything more than that, Severus, but I promise never to do anything less.  That's a vow that I can and will deliver, my prince.  I'll move Heaven and Earth to help you believe it, if you need me to.”

Severus stares right into those mesmerizing emerald eyes for a long time.  His gloved hand remains perched delicately over Harry's own, barely an inch or two away from the earnest smile that's so slowly, but so certainly, conquering his every suspicion.  His every misgiving.  Offering him something that nobody else has ever offered to him before now.  Harry is trying to lure him home with the boldness that only a true son of the house of the lion would have ever dared to show a jaded old pariah like him.  
“I believe you, Harry Potter."  He whispers into the quiet  "I finally... dare... to believe you.”  
  
 **  
  
** **A/N:** (*) The Serpentine, also known as the Serpentine lake or river is a huge man-made body of water that sits in the middle of High Park, in London, UK.  
 **  
**


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11.**

  
Harry leans against the cool marble surface of the huge island that dominates his kitchen and takes a deep breath in an effort to keep hold of his swiftly disappearing calm.  He's too rattled to cope properly with Severus' edgy attitude and the fact that the Slytherin's apparent willingness to have dinner at his house has given him an obviously premature sense of over-confidence in his own ability to turn this encounter into the same kind of undeniably pleasant meeting they've been sharing on a regular basis for weeks now is distressing him endlessly.  
  
 _'I should have known that things were going to go downhill between us as soon as Severus set foot here.  He's not used to having relationships with the men he sleeps with and the fact that he's returned to 'the scene of the crime' is unsettling him too much to just... relax.  He's upset and unable to hide it while I'm far too invested emotionally to dare confronting him openly about it for fear of ending up unnerving him even further.'_

“Are you all right, Potter?”

The question makes him jump right out of his frustrated musings and he turns swiftly around, fixing anxious green eyes on Severus' frowning face in unconsciously pleading response to the unwelcome sound of his last name being pronounced in that particular mix of irritated impatience and wounding detachment.  
“I thought you'd decided to call me Harry for good, Severus.  You said you wanted to build on our growing closeness.  Isn't that why you agreed to have tea over here, instead of going to another crowded little cafe for supper?”

“I take it you believe that my use of your family name is, somehow, detrimental to our purpose of becoming better acquainted?”

“I think so.  Hearing you call me Harry makes me feel closer to you.  I don't particularly enjoy it when you address me by the same name you used to snarl so spitefully when I was your student.”

Severus regards him thoughtfully for a seemingly endless second.  Those dark eyes rake his form from head to toes with the kind of focused intensity that can turn his bones to liquid in the space between one breath and the next.  He shifts his weight uncomfortably from left to right, fully aware of the fact that his companion is discouragingly oblivious to how intensely arousing Harry finds the idea of having that unfathomable dark gaze fixed upon him so intently.   
  
Severus' silent scrutiny is getting him rapidly flustered with the kind of sexual tension that he can't afford the skittish older man to see right now.  He has to do something to avoid any further deterioration of the situation into the kind of scene that could potentially distress his already rattled companion even more and he has to do it right now, before his physical response to being the sole focus of his Prince's undivided attention becomes so goddamned obvious that not even a cold fish like his beloved could possibly ignore it.  
  
“You should go back to the living room, my love.  There's nothing for you to do here at this point and having my special guest standing in the kitchen while I brew a simple cup of tea makes me look like a bad host.  I've got everything under control, Severus.  I realize that our drinks are taking a long time but I'm brewing them the muggle way.  Molly swears tea just tastes better like this.”

Severus' puzzled frown becomes downright suspicious at that point and he crosses his spindly arms tightly across his narrow chest in a clearly defensive gesture, taking in a deep breath before confronting him with uncharacteristic boldness:  
“Why are you so nervous all of a sudden?  I thought this was what you wanted.  You've been insisting that I come here for days and, now that I've finally done so, you keep running out of the living-room every two seconds.  I don't understand what the hell is wrong with you, Potter.  If you want me to leave your home all you have to do is say it.”

“No!  I don't want you to leave my home.  I want you to stay, trust me on that." His words break on a small bark of sheer hysterical laughter and he ends up raking the trembling fingers of his right hand through his hopelessly messy hair before making the decision of taking this bull by the horns and actually acknowledge the presence of the huge elephant that's sitting in the room right beside them  "I want you to stay here so damned much that it's driving me crazy, my love.  It's just—You've been looking really uncomfortable since the moment you arrived and it's finally dawned on me that you may not be mentally prepared to be here so soon after our night together.   
  
"I've been assuming that you had enough time to come to terms with the fact that we've been intimate and I thought I could cope with whatever small discomfort you'd show about being here, but—you are reacting as if that night is still a pretty a big deal for you and it's hard to see you so unsettled without trying to do something about it."  
  
"Harry..."  
  
"No, please, hear me out.  I don't want to upset you further with my usual touchy-feely approach to offering comfort, but... I don't know how else to reach you. It's hard for me to have you here, standing as close to me as you are right now, and still feel as if there are a thousand miles separating us from one another.  I've never been as formal as you are and the need to hug you close and tell you that everything is going to be alright, that I didn't bring you here to have my wicked way with you for the second time, is driving me insane.  I'm willing to take this relationship at your pace, Severus.  I'm not planning to rush you into bed at any point, no matter how long it takes you to decide that you trust me enough to share your body with me again without having an entire barrel of Fire-whiskey driving your actions.”

Ebony-black eyes close in a small gesture of relief as Severus' entire frame simply sags, as if deflating all at once.  That lanky frame finally abandons the unsettling rigidity of the defensive posture that the man has been sporting since he arrived and a small chuckle escapes those pale, thin lips that rarely smile while a loose swatch of inky locks begins to dance around their owner's narrow face as he shakes his head from side to side in thoughtful introspection.  
  
“I'm so used to your usual Gryffindor forcefulness that I started getting the wrong message as soon as you began acting like a thoughtful and considerate host.  I believe you are over-thinking this, Harry.  It is true that I'm not precisely comfortable with being here, but that doesn't mean I'll feel better if you start suddenly behaving so out of character.  I've come to this house of my own free will and, although I'm fully conscious of what happened between us the last time I was here, I also happen to believe you when you tell me that you're willing to wait for me to feel ready to get back into your bed.”

Despite the sudden relief that floods Harry's senses upon hearing his Prince's reassurances he can't help but feeling slightly deflated by the fact that his love seems so totally unaffected by his supposedly 'irresistible' physical charms.  
 _'So much for Witch Weekly's claim that I'm the most desirable bachelor in the Wizarding World these days, then'_   He thinks with a touch of bitterness and can't help the small snort that makes it past his lips.  The sound is soft but edged with a clear tinge of disappointment that Severus somehow recognizes, judging by how fast the awful stiffness that turns his narrow shoulders into a straight horizontal rod makes its re-appearance.  
  
“Potter, what on Earth...?”  
  
"Oh, fuck this!"  Harry finally explodes with no small amount of frustration at his own inability to stick to his damned perfect plan and avoid pushing Severus way too fast for the man's comfort.  He knows it's a bad idea, but his innate sense of fair play is prickling constantly in the back of his mind, prompting him to lay all his cards on the table and stop trying to hide his physical attraction from the object of his every desire.  
  
"Excuse me?"  Severus whispers in that low and dangerous tone that just coils around Harry's senses and sets all his nerves on fire.  The man is obviously peeved at being so rudely interrupted and ends up turning one of those pissed-off-professor looks on him, making Harry's battle with his own desires and instincts all the more difficult for the logical side of his mind to win. 

“You have no idea of how you affect me, do you?  You look at me and can't feel any lust whatsoever, while I—I'm itching to touch you right now, Severus.  I'm constantly on edge around you, forever reduced to having to remind myself that I've got to back off.  That I've got to stop coming so close to you whenever we are standing side by side.  That I've got to stop reaching out to take your elegant hand or touch your reedy shoulder.  I've got to stop myself from carding greedy fingers through your hair, or caressing the sharp planes of your cheekbone.  I've got to try and forget the memory of precisely how heavenly it felt to have you kiss every inch of my exposed skin passionately, because remembering all that only makes me crave the glorious feeling of having your mouth all over me even more.  
  
"Sometimes you touch a book distractedly or run your fingertip down the handle of a teacup with that thoughtful expression of yours, and my heart abandons its dwelling place on my chest altogether and settles right in the pit of my stomach or the middle of my throat.  Every time your hand glides over the polished backrest of a wooden chair or your finger traces the rim of your pint glass my mind short-circuits and brings me back here, to the bedroom you once inhabited and the mattress on which I writhed in reaction to the pleasure that you brought me with that very same touch.”

Severus flushes bright red.  His dark eyes widen and he looks instantly unnerved.  He's both clearly shocked and uncharacteristically unable to hide how very flustered he has become.  His usual formal rigidity flees as if he has forgotten how to keep it firmly wrapped over his heartbreaking vulnerability, leaving the awkward teenager it protects fully exposed to Harry's softening gaze. 

The artless charm of his naive half-blood Prince enthralls him now as much as ever and he feels nothing short of fiercely protective of his precious beloved as soon as the man's lack of worldly experience is betrayed by the single step he takes backwards.  By the uncharacteristically graceless shrug of a bony shoulder in a small gesture of helpless bravado.  By the crystal-clear mix of curiosity and trepidation that has turned those usually unfathomable dark eyes into pools of dawning awareness.  
  
“I assumed that you'd sated whatever physical desire you felt towards me the last time you had me.  I'm not used to people ever wanting a repeat of that particular experience.”

Harry snorts inelegantly.  Looking right into those gorgeous black eyes with the kind of doting understanding that somehow manages to keep his timid doe pinned to the spot.  
“Have you ever considered that none of your one-night stands has been able to ask you for a repeat performance because you tend to disappear on them long before they wake up the next morning?  There is a reason why you choose to bed strangers every single time you feel the need to be held, Severus.  You are afraid of _this._   You are afraid of having to endure the knowing look of someone who's seen you bare.  You are dead frightened of having to stand there and deal with the knowledge that they've seen you.  Really seen you.  That they've traced those scars of yours with their hands.  With their tongues.  You are terrified of having to come to terms with the idea that someone may have found traces of glorious beauty where you see nothing but shame.”

The kettle chooses that second to screech loudly into the thickening silence and they both jump at the same time, having been so focused on one another that they've actually forgotten where they were and what they'd been in the process of doing.  Harry sighs explosively and strides jerkily towards the muggle style cooker with obvious impatience, removing the pot from the fire and swiftly bringing the room back to the oppressively charged quietude that Severus isn't sure he wants to break.

He feels unbalanced and on edge.  He feels uncomfortable.  Disoriented.  Utterly uncertain.  He's having second, third and even fourth thoughts about the wisdom of his decision to come here.  To this house where they'd been a hell of a lot more intimate than they've managed to be ever since.  To this place that should belong only to Potter's lifelong friends or long-time lover.   
  
He believes he shouldn't have come here.  Can't help the idea that he's pretending to have the right of having his presence accepted by these walls that have only ever sheltered him from the outside world once before.  He has no right to demand the devoted affection of the owner of this flat.  He has no claim over his companion whatsoever.  Has no right to expect being cherished by him or offered protection, care and simple companionship in this slightly disorganized kitchen.  In the homely, if cluttered, environment that the Gryffindor has created for himself.

“Severus?”

His name reaches his ears like the soft sigh often exhaled at the end of a prayer and he lifts his anxious black gaze upwards, bringing it into a headlong collision with Harry's own.  Those green eyes are studying him too damned closely for his comfort.  They are raking his pale features with the sort of intensity that does nothing to settle the deep fear that's spreading like lethal poison through his veins.  
“Don't look at me like that, please.”

The seeker frowns with puzzled perplexity, obviously unaware of the soul-deep hunger that his expression betrays.  
“Don't look at you like what, precisely?  I'm trying hard not to spook you, my prince.  I'm sorry if I've managed to make you uncomfortable.  That wasn't my intention, I swear.  I just—I need you to understand that my desire for you isn't only platonic.  It hasn't been quenched or sated or forgotten.  It hasn't vanished, either, and chances are that it never will.  I desire you totally, Severus.  I crave your presence beside me in all: body, mind and soul.  Sometimes I feel I can not breathe unless I see your face.  Hear your voice.  Have one chance to touch your hair, your cheek, your graceful fingertips.”

Potter's eyes widen in shocked dismay when Severus takes another stumbling step backwards and begins to whisper with frantic alarm:  
“I'm not ready for this.  I'm not ready for any of it.  I can't possibly give you whatever it is that you want from me.  I won't ever be able to...”  His words come to an abrupt halt as he begins to shake from head to toes, frightened right out of his mind by the sudden understanding of how very out of his depth he's dared to come.   
  
His heart starts banging against the narrow confines of his rib cage and he feels literally dizzy with anxiety as his head begins to shake from side to side in flustered denial of everything that this man has now implied to desire from him way before he feels ready to start giving away even the smallest fraction of it all.

The seeker bridges the growing distance between them with a couple of steps forwards and proceeds to grab him unceremoniously by the shoulders with a grip that's both firm enough to still his instinctive need to retreat and gentle beyond endurance.   
  
"Potter..."  Severus whispers harshly, attempting to shrug that anchoring contact away, but Harry tightens his hold upon his shoulders with careful strength and then shakes his increasingly rigid form ever so slightly, whispering soothingly all the time:  
  
“Ssshhh, ssshhh, my love.  There's no need to panic, Severus, I swear.  You need to calm down and give me the chance to show you that I'm not trying to push you into giving me more than you feel ready to give me.  I'm not trying to coax you into my bed.  I'm trying to be honest with you.  I'm trying to tell you that there is more depth to my feelings for you than you're willing to see or even accept right now.   
  
"You've got to trust me better than this, sweetheart.  I haven't betrayed you yet so far and I'm not planning to start doing that at this point.  I'm a grown man of twenty five, despite what you may think of my maturity, Severus.  I can control both myself and my urges just like every other lust-addled bloke has to do when in the presence of his partner of choice.  I'm not a caveman, you know?  Giving up on instant gratification in order to prove to you that my feelings are more than skin deep is worth it, do you understand me?  I don't want you for sex alone.  I want you for everything.  I want you forever and nobody manages to get forever out of a couple of romps, no matter how glorious they happen to be, my love."  
  
"Harry..."  
  
"I know that you are afraid, Severus.  I can see it as clearly as I see the dark color of your hair.  I can feel it with the same sort of clarity with which I feel the softness of your robes against the palms of my hands.  You are afraid and I understand that.  But _you_ have to understand that I'm here to help you.  I can and will support you through all of this.  That is part of what we are building.  I can't help you if you don't let me, though.  I can't hold you safe in my arms if you attempt to keep me at bay.  I can't force you to accept me when it comes right down to it, Severus.  Your desire to be held by me, to be here at all, must be freely felt and freely given or my constant pushing on your buttons will destroy us both in the end."  
  
Severus becomes as still as a wax statue, seeming to be thinking through Harry's words with the extra care of someone fully aware of the importance that his answer to them will have in relation to the warmth, loving future that he craves with all his heart, but is still far too afraid to believe in at this point in time.  
"What...?  What does that mean?  I don't think I understand.  I'm here.  With you.  In your house.  I've accepted every date that you've proposed and dared to trust you enough to arrive at your door unchaperoned.  I thought I've been making my choice patently clear."  
  
Harry relaxes ever so slightly and allows his tight grip on Severus' shoulders to slacken inch by inch until he has no other option but to remove his hands from all contact with that slender frame altogether.    
"Yes.  You are here, but... are you committed to this?  To us?  Are you really willing to finally take this relationship of ours out of the shadows?  We won't be able to keep hiding it like this for much longer and I'm distressingly famous, Severus.  I will move Heaven and Earth to protect you from the backlash of public opinion but I won't ever agree to keep you hidden.   
  
"I.  Am.  In.  Love.  With. You.  I'm not ashamed of my feelings and I'm not ashamed of you.  Do you understand me?  You need to be really sure that this is what you want, my prince, because sooner or later our association is going to hit the papers and, when that happens, you won't be able to backpedal out of this.  Your life will never be the same.  It won't ever return to its current anonymity."

  
"How can you not be ashamed of loving me?"  Severus finally dares to ask the question that has been burning the tip of his tongue ever since he finally accepted the unfathomable fact that this man, who happens to be the single most desirable bachelor in the Wizarding World, has developed genuine affection towards him out of literally nowhere.

“You don't trust me all that much, do you?  Or at least you don't trust the strength of my feelings in the slightest.  You've already decided that you aren't good enough for me and are allowing your inability to figure out why I may actually love you to mess with your head.  You think this is just a fancy.  Something that will come and go like a swiftly passing season.  Something as feeble and breakable as a thin layer of glass.  You believe my love to be nothing more than a fragile little whim that will be ultimately unable to withstand the pressure of public opinion.  You are convinced in your heart of hearts that we'll never make it, aren't you, my Prince?”

Severus flinches at the touch of bitterness that has begun to taint Harry's usually cheerful voice with its dark poison:  
“I don't think love can grow out of nothing.  I've never treated you particularly well while you were my student and I'm pretty certain that you downright hated me during the war.  I know that my loyalty to Albus sparked some sort of pity in your heart for my poor miserable self immediately after the final battle, but... you testified on my behalf and I just left.  We did not come into contact again until my return to England and, although we have managed to be reasonably civil to one another ever since, there has never been enough closeness between us to have prompted you to see me as a romantic partner.”

“Can't you bring yourself to consider how easy it would have been for me to become attracted to an elegant older man, who happens to be one of the most intelligent creatures I have ever met, after being finally re-acquainted with him long after I outgrew the biased opinion of his character I developed as an immature and prejudiced teenager?    
  
"Do you believe it impossible for me to have been dazzled by the one unattainable creature who has never so far swooned as soon as he realized that the Savior himself had approached him with the intention of exchanging a few words?  Do you truly think I wouldn't want the kind of loyal man who'd return home to a host of unpleasant memories and the undeserved scorn of a vengeful public out of love for his one and only godchild?  Do you honestly believe that I'd choose some pompous social climber over an honest-to-goodness hero of the war who will actually be able to understand my darkest demons as soon as they rear their nasty little heads in his presence?"  
  
Severus attempts to swallow the thick lump that has taken residence in the middle of his throat to no avail.  He feels exposed all the way down to the rawest and most vulnerable fiber of his being.  He feels both challenged and cherished.  Utterly understood and taken into account.  Valued beyond his own worth and adored past all logic and all reason.  Loved in the most genuine sense of that word for the very first time in his memory.  
"I—Yes.  I believe I may be able to bring myself to consider all of that, Harry."  He whispers quietly in response and a small smile breaks out across the thin line of his lips when the Gryffindor lets out a thoroughly relieved little whoop of sheer relief.  
  
"Thank Merlin for that, my prince.  You had me as worried as an elf being presented with the unwelcome sight of a bundle of clean clothes.  I don't know if I'd survive having another chat like this one with you ever again, Severus, so... If you honestly believe that we can not make it then, please, do me the favor of walking away now.  I Think we've gone far enough into this courtship for you to have at least developed some sort of inkling about the nature of your future feelings towards me.  Can you see yourself ever fancying me, my love?  Can you imagine us on the same bed, in the same shower?  Smiling at each other across a crowded room or looking after our sick carcasses with sympathetic care?"  
  
The images that those words paint in the deepest recesses of Severus' mind are both frightening and precious.  He can picture them so clearly that they feel more fate than question.  More prophesy than dream.  More possible than any other future he's ever dared to try to imagine for himself.  His pale fingers raise ever so slowly, behaving for all intent and purposes as if they have a mind of their own, one that guides them quite unerringly to tangle in the tufts of Harry's messy black hair.   
  
The short locks feel as soft as velvet against his sensitive finger-pads and he sighs with uncharacteristic abandon into the charged little silence that his sudden action seems to have created.  Harry is submitting to his touch with unnatural stillness.  He seems to have stopped breathing altogether and those eyes, so green, so expressive, have become as wide as saucers and are fixed on his face with unblinking adoration.  
  
The open emotion so plainly displayed on those gorgeous young features touches something wild and hungry inside Severus.  Something needy and fierce and... greedy... wakes within him and raises through his body like a wave of molten lava.  His spine bends towards the love shining so brightly from that faintly tanned face, as if he's become a sunflower charmed to follow that particular expression to the very ends of the universe itself, and he ends up cradling Harry's face gently in the next second.  Looking directly into his eyes and drinking in the hopeful joy that has begun to blossom across those delicate features with the wonderment of a man who's never seen something so beautiful before.  He finally finds the courage to surrender to the tug of his own heart and places his daring mouth upon the lips of the Boy Who Lived, sighing with exultant satisfaction into the quiet silence and feeling so very at home.  
  
Their kiss is brief, but oh-so-perfect.  It fills all the empty spaces of Severus' hungry heart and soul with the blinding light of sunshine, flooding him from the inside out with the kind of warmth that no casual touch has ever managed to make him feel before.   
  
Harry sighs against the lips claiming his own with heartfelt delight and opens his trembling mouth to his Prince's tentative assault.  A hesitant tongue-tip runs along the moist seam of his bottom lip and the flavor of Severus' gloriously familiar taste explodes inside his mouth in the next second.  A groan escapes one of them, but Harry isn't bothered by the soft sound enough to try finding out which one of them actually made it.  He can only feel the joy of having this man kiss him with the same lack of artifice that he's shown him once before.   
  
Severus' touch has the unmistakable hesitancy of a youth who was never granted the opportunity of learning how to kiss properly, but what his Slytherin lacks in experience he definitely supplements with sheer enthusiasm and Harry's senses are taken over by the exhilarating feeling of complete and utter rightness that sweeps his entire body from the top of his dark head to the curled tips of his toes as soon as Severus' tongue decides to take the final plunge and tangles with his own.   
  
Lack of air eventually forces them apart and they end up looking into each other's eyes with a sort of dazed wonder.  Severus' mouth looks red and swollen, it's smiling with unbridled satisfaction for the first time in Harry's memory and the soft-eyed picture that his love makes in this instant becomes engraved inside his wildly beating heart, as if branded by fire.  Long, potion-tainted fingertips keep on carding through his short and messy locks and he dares not move a muscle for fear of breaking whatever enchantment has allowed his precious Prince to find the blessed courage to touch him in this manner.  
  
"I love you, Severus Snape.  I love you with all of my heart."  He whispers quietly into the contented silence that has bloomed between them in the wake of their first alcohol-free kiss and he feels as if Merlin himself has presented him with all the magic of the founders when his beloved Prince accepts his declaration at face value with a tender looking smile and proceeds to whisper softly against his ear:  
  
"We should visit old Rosmerta on our next date, Harry.  I believe it's time to take this relationship of ours out of the world of shamed shadows and expose it to the full brightness of daylight.  We should bring our little secret out of its tightly closed bag.  We should shake it free and allow it to become the kind of reality that nobody can deny.  We should let this newborn relationship stand on its on two feet and watch it walk unaided.  Let's allow it to grow confident enough to roam free out into the open, where it belongs."  
 **  
** **  
**

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12.**

  
Severus looks towards the shadowy corridor that leads to The Three Broomsticks' loo, where Harry seems to have become inexplicably lost, and wonders if he should stand up and go 'rescue' his companion from whatever perils are keeping him so obviously busy inside the gents way past the time when most reasonable explanations for the rather rude delay would have sounded plausible enough to be believed.

The Gryffindor excused himself to go 'water the herb garden' around half an hour ago and the longer he takes to return, the more difficult it is for Severus to fight off the awful suspicion that he may just have been abandoned to face the pub's patrons all by himself.

He's been aware of the unnatural quietude that seems to have dimmed the usually loud atmosphere of The Broomsticks since the moment they'd entered it together, but has been striving to ignore it as best as he can.  He hasn't failed to notice the increasingly confused sideways looks he's been garnering with every passing second that he remains seating in solitary splendor at their table, stubbornly forcing himself to take small sips from his ever-chilled pint glass at regular intervals in order to portray the kind of unaffected self-confidence that he's really nowhere near feeling.

There's no doubt in his mind that his arrival here wouldn't have sparked quite so much unwanted attention if he hadn't entered the place in the company of The Boy Who Lived, himself.  He'd been one of Rosmerta's regulars once and considers himself more than merely familiar with most of the people who are studying him now so intently.

He's been on friendly enough terms with plenty of them for years and yet, being on the receiving end of the puzzled looks that are converging upon him with barely disguised curiosity right now, he feels strangely disconnected from them all, like a foreigner who has just stumbled into the heart of a small and tightly-knit community.

He smiles briefly into his drink, amusing himself by trying to predict just how many surreptitious audio-enhancing spells his carefully applied Muffliato has been thwarting since he entered the place with the savior himself attached to his hip and allowed the man not only the liberty of guiding him across the crowded room by way of a casual hand firmly plastered to the small of his back, but also consented to sit with him at one of the most secluded tables the place has to offer in what must have looked for all intents and purposes like amiable companionship.

They'd already enjoyed a pleasant hour or so of lively conversation and chilled pints when Harry had suddenly taken a single look over his shoulder and proceeded to stand up in the next second, claiming an urgent need to go to the loo in such an abrupt manner that Severus had had no doubt that he was being fed a shameless lie.

Although they have been ordering their drinks in batches of two at a time, no one except their waitress has approached them so far and Severus knows Rosmerta well enough to realize that her careful avoidance of their table means she has absolutely no intention of coming around to greet them while they're together.  It's patently obvious to him that she wants to catch one or the other alone and there is very little doubt in his mind as to the identity of her target of choice.  She has no ties to Harry, after all.

He'd be willing to bet that she's managed to signal her desire to share a private word with him to his companion and, now that he's been sitting all alone for the better part of half an hour he's beginning to wonder what the hell is wrong with both Harry and Rosmerta.  He can definitely understand the Gryffindor's willingness to grant their hostess the privacy she seems to have indicated to desire, yet Severus can not imagine why the seeker would allow her so much leeway after she's failed to approach the table for so long.

He's just made up his mind to stand up and go in search of his wayward companion when he spots Rosmerta finally approaching out of the corner of his eye.  She's making a beeline for him that is managing to turn every eye in his direction and he's left with no other option but to straighten up his posture and lean back against the backrest of the pub's uncomfortable wooden chair in a gesture that he hopes looks both confident and vaguely welcoming.

She flashes him a small, tight-lipped smile that instantly allows him to understand that she's seen right through his bravado and he sighs with weary resignation.  Rosmerta has always been able to read him like the book he's tried real hard never to become.  She'd been unreasonably fond of him from the moment she first met him, going as far as to shelter him from the marauders' vicious bullying whenever they targeted him openly either at her pub or in the village itself.

She's also one of the very few people who has been in the position of witnessing more than her fair share of his double-sided dealings with both Death Eaters and members of the Order, yet she'd never to his knowledge betrayed his clandestine meetings with the other side to either of those groups.

He honestly believes that she drew her own conclusions about the true nature of his allegiances during both wars pretty early on and, whatever she saw him do or heard him proclaim out loud while in her pub, she'd placed enough faith in him to grant him the benefit of the doubt, allowing his actions to remain strictly his business through those dark and violent years.

By now he's fully conscious of the fact that her steadfast silence has probably saved his miserable hide twenty times over and, although neither of them has ever bothered to address the issue openly, he's always suspected that the childless pub owner thinks of him with the fondness of a loving -if emotionally detached- mother.

She'd been the only person of his acquaintance who'd remained stubbornly neutral about his not-so-secret role in Albus' death during the horrible year he'd been forced to play the role of Headmaster of Hogwarts, going as far as to squeeze his shoulder gently on one occasion in what had ended up being the only touch of comfort he'd received at a time when he'd found himself utterly abandoned by the friends and allies of a lifetime.  Forced by Albus' ruthless machinations to embrace the toxic adulation offered so freely by his despicable foes.

“Severus... It's so nice to have you back, child.  I was beginning to think you've forgotten all about us.”  Rosmerta's cheerful voice greets him with genuine delight as soon as she's within earshot of his table, wrenching him away from his unpleasant thoughts. He acknowledges her words with a small polite smile and startles when she blatantly ignores the reserved coolness of his welcome and proceeds to plant a soft, motherly kiss on his reddening cheek.

“Madame!”  He splutters, utterly flustered, prompting her to pat him soothingly on the shoulder.

“Don't look at me like that, dear.  I've missed you too much to bother with your tiresome formality.  You left England without saying goodbye to a large number of folks and, now that you're finally back, you rarely bother to visit.  You can't blame me for wanting to take hold of my chances when they present themselves, can you?”

“I come by often enough.  I bring flowers to Albus' grave on a regular basis.”  He retorts stiffly, unwilling to be rude enough to ignore her friendly reproof, but not really in the mood to let her get away with treating him like an unruly teenager, either.

He's got nothing to hide, but he also doesn't owe anyone here his particular respect. He's finally left his former life behind.  Has managed to abandon most of his old frustrations and pet peeves, allowing himself to grow stronger in the wake the emotional destruction they once caused him.  He has fought a long, hard battle with himself to overcome the wounding feelings of betrayal that had crushed his heart with almost unendurable disappointment during the last year of the war, and now has absolutely no intention of allowing anyone to drag him down that dark and miserable road ever again.

“Albus is dead, Severus.  You could talk to him from your fireside chair and his soul would still hear you.  He's not the one who'd benefit the most from having you visit during one of your short-lived and often unpredictable forays into Hogwarts' grounds.

“Minerva tells me that you haven't set foot inside the castle yet.  You haven't visited her, either.  You haven't visited me, or Fillius, or even Poppy.  I couldn't believe it when you failed to come to the reinforcement of the castle's wards ceremony.  Your participation would have made the magic stronger, since your role as a former Headmaster of the school has tied your power to the grounds in a way that no one else save Minerva has experienced.  You've been avoiding us all in a most painful manner, child.”

The mention of his former colleagues brings an uncomfortable knot of guilt to his increasingly constricted chest.  He's aware that he hasn't dealt well with how easily they had been to convince of his supposed treachery.  Their lack of faith in him, particularly Minerva's, had cut him very deeply.  Too deeply for him to cope properly with it and move on.

Minnie had corralled him while he'd been stuck at St Mungo's and tried to force him into listening to her tearful apologies at a time when he'd been far too bitter to grant her any patience.  He remembers having gone as far as to tell her he forgave her lack of faith, just to get rid of her.  But the truth is that his trust on her affection for him had been so damaged already that returning to their former friendship had struck him as impossible.

The same can be said of the rest of his colleagues and the castle itself holds so many horrible memories for him that he's refused point blank to go back to it time and time again.  He'd resigned from his Headmaster's position as soon as he'd been strong enough to withstand the magical ritual meant to dissolve his bond with the school.

He'd then proceeded to turn down both the opportunity to teach Potions and Defense, refusing to remain attached to the school as the non-docent, live-in Head of the Slytherin House and also rejecting the idea of becoming Minerva's deputy out of hand.

He'd gone as far as to donate most of his belongings to the school, just to avoid having to set foot on the place in order to collect whatever Draco hadn't been able to carry when he'd sent him to pack up his rooms and had left for the continent soon afterwards, unable to find comfort anywhere.  Unable to cope with the idea that he'd decided to abandon the one place he'd called home for close to twenty years and had ended up with nowhere safe to hide.

“I left this life behind when the war ended, Rosmerta.  Some things were way too damaged to survive a painful patch up work and I've learned the hard way not to bother tainting good memories with the bitterness of more unpleasant ones.  That's no way to honor past friendships that broke through nobody's fault.”

She looks shattered as his words sink into her consciousness like poison-dipped darts.  There's a heartbreaking fragility to her as she stands there, watching him through regret-filled eyes while her ample bosom heaves with obvious distress and a riot of brown curls waves back and forth around her lovey face as she shakes her head from left to right in crushed disappointment.  
“You've always been too harsh with those who wrong you.  I understand how betrayed you must have felt at the time.  I really do, but—You worked really hard to make us hate you, Severus.  You wanted us to believe the lie you told us.  You were too good at playing the role you chose to play.”

“I didn't choose my role, Rosmerta.  That was Albus' doing.”

Her face pales even further upon hearing his retort and she can't contain a pained little gasp from escaping her lush lips.  Her hands tangle together atop the pristine white apron that she's wearing and her eyes contemplate him thoughtfully for a very long time.   
“Do you really imagine that we don't know that by now?  If we can forgive you for never confiding on us, why is it that you can not bring yourself to grant us the same favor?”

Severus lowers his gaze towards the table, both unable and unwilling to sit there and look right into her old eyes while she rakes up their painful past over and over.   
“Let's not talk about the war, please.  I'm trying to leave all that behind, where it belongs.  I'm trying to survive the past and all its associated damage as best I can, Rosmerta.  I have no desire to become trapped in a never-ending loop of bitter accusations that will never have the power to soothe anyone's grievances.”

“And this is how you're trying to do that?  Do you honestly believe that running away to Europe and closing yourself off from everyone who may have welcomed the chance to apologize to you and work on rebuilding the bridges that once united you will bring you proper closure?”

“It has worked for me so far, Madame.  I've got no intention of allowing you to guilt me into regretting my decision to walk away.  I had no obligation to provide anyone with the chance to atone for their own failings.”

She snorts fiercely, clearly riled by his implacable refusal to accept the blame she's so willing to heap at his door.  Her gaze rakes the bustling pub until she spots Harry's unmistakable form leaning casually against the bar with his powerful arms crossed tightly across his wide, athletic chest and his iconic green eyes firmly fixed upon them, appearing for all intent and purposes like a watchful mother hen forcing itself to remain away from its weak chick while it stumbles around the yard in search of sustenance, but obviously willing to step in and remove it from danger as soon as it catches sight of it.

“Why are you here with that boy, Severus?  Why did you allow him to choose the most secluded table I've got and proceeded to sit with him like a friend or a lover?  Do you have any idea of what your presence here, like this, seems to imply?  Potter is... gay.”

“I'm fully aware of the brat's orientation.  I don't live under a rock, you know?”

She looks at him searchingly, curious gaze darting shrewdly between Harry's watchful form and his own.   
“Then you'll also know that he's pretty private about his romantic life and that, although he's been unattached for ages, he avoids going out with men on a one to one basis because he can't sneeze these days near another bloke without having The Prophet start planning out their wedding.”

Severus swallows uncomfortably and forces out a single, rebellious looking smile.  His eyes look directly into hers as he offers her the truth in a tone gone flat with rigid defensiveness:   
“I'm aware of that, too.”

She looks so startled then that he can't ignore the small knot of dread that is trying hard to settle in his gut as her eyes widen with shocked disbelief.  
“Are you trying to tell me that Harry Potter and you are together?  But that's madness, Severus!  He's young enough to be your son.  He used to be your student.  He's...”

“No longer a schoolboy, but a man who finds me attractive.  A man who has been bold enough to ask me for a date, Madame.”

“But you've despised each other for years.”

“We now have loved ones in common.  We've grown closer to one another by necessity.”  He points out quietly in response, shifting uncomfortably in his simple wooden chair and wondering why on Earth that goddamned brat isn't coming to his rescue.  Can't he see that a well-timed interruption of this uncomfortable conversation would be most definitely welcome?

Rosmerta proceeds to read his thoughts out loud, picking on them with the same startling ease that she has always displayed whenever he's involved.  
“There's no need for you to try summoning him with a pleading look, Severus.  He'd be here in a flash if he thought I'm making you so uncomfortable out of vindictiveness.  He's been watching us like a hawk since he came out of the gents.  That boy doesn't know how to love lightly.  No lost child ever does, and he's more famous, more stubborn and more powerful than most.  He'd be dammed near impossible to resist if he ever sets his mind on being _accepted_.”

Severus frowns at the quiet warning she isn't bothering to veil in any way.  He pulls his distracted gaze away from Harry's intent features and focuses it upwards and to the side instead, allowing his dark eyes to clash with the thoughtful expression that has appeared on her lovely features.  Bristling at the obvious worry that her lively gaze displays and thoroughly resenting the delicately nuanced question she's failed to voice, but has managed to convey nevertheless.  
“Are you seriously implying that he's... forced... me to come here with him? He's no Voldemort, Rosmerta.”

“He's no Albus Dumbledore, either. He won't love you like a mentor or a brother.  He won't let you remain aloof, Severus.  Harry Potter is an all or nothing sort of man.  He's kept the same friends since childhood and dotes on them excessively.  He'd be a rather intense lover: protective, loyal and faithful to the very ends of time.  He'd be passionate and devoted beyond logic.  He'd be precisely what you need, child, but he won't come into anyone's life without a price.  He's way too famous for that.”

“His fame isn't his fault.  It'd be beyond unfair to shun him because of it.”

“But you just told me that you want to find a way to live in peace, forget the war, leave the hurt it brought you behind and move beyond it.  How are you ever going to achieve that by Harry Potter's side?  He's the Savior himself, Severus.  You won't be able to escape who he is and what he has achieved.  You'll be condemning yourself to spend a lifetime glued to the biggest icon of the war there is, if you take him on.”

“I'll be condemning myself to certain loneliness if I don't.  He brings me peace.  He understands me like no one has ever done.  He makes me smile whenever he's around and that's something I'm not prepared to walk away from at this point.”

“Do you love him, then?  Because he does.  I can see that much already and I bet it won't be long before someone calls Rita Skeeter and tells her exactly that.”

“I believe I could love him if I give myself the chance to try.”

Her eyes rake his homely features with obvious concern before she sighs out loud in resigned defeat.    
“That may be a mistake on your part, dear.  Are you definitely certain that allowing yourself to fall for Harry Potter is wise?”

Severus flinches visibly upon hearing her truly intrusive question and glares fiercely right at her.  On one hand he's pitifully grateful for both her concerned honesty and the care she's putting into warning him against an association that could end up bringing him more grief than pleasure in the not so distant future, but he's also rather peeved at her unwarranted assumption that she's welcome to meddle into his private affairs.   
  
“Why are you bothering to give me free advice so late in life?  You allowed me to make far more dangerous choices at an age when I would have benefited a lot more from a concerned adult's guidance.  Your worry for my future has arrived far too late to save me from disaster, Rosmerta, and by now I've already learned the art of choosing my own path without caring all that much for anyone's approval, let alone yours.”

She gasps in shocked reaction to his sharp response but doesn't slink away in shamed retreat. Her eyes flash with pride and humor only a second before she pats him on the shoulder with unmistakable fondness.  
“You deserved far better guidance than you got.  That's a truth that can't ever be denied.  Albus, Minerva and I tried so very hard to give you what we thought you wanted at the time that we never had the presence of mind to try understanding what you needed the most.  You have every right in the world to question the quality of our care for you but, please, do not ever doubt the sincerity of the affection that fueled it.

“I'm an old and foolish spinster, Severus.  I have loved you like the son I never had but have always been too proud of my much boasted about independence to recognize the fact that I felt the need to mother anyone.  I dared to cast you into a very important role in my life that I only ever satisfied to the point I felt comfortable with.  I've cared for you like a son but never openly treated you like one and, for that, I'm sincerely sorry, child.  Having to come to terms with the fact that we lost your respect and your friendship as soon as the end of the war allowed you the freedom to finally choose your own path has been hard on all of us.”

“So you want to make amends.  Change your ways at long last and save me from a bad choice.  You want to earn back the respect you think you lost when I walked away.  Is that what this is about?”

Her smile is soft and loving as she looks into his eyes and dares to lift a trembling fingertip to caress the narrow line of his jaw.  
“I want you to be happier than you've been so far, Severus.  I want to live long enough to see you smile for real once again.  I want to see you at peace with the world that surrounds you and have the certainty that you are finally content with whatever lot you've chosen to fight for.  You deserve to be showered with the blessings of the Founders and I want to make sure that I don't fail you this time around by letting you choose unwisely.”

Severus swallows the huge lump that has lodged in his throat with difficulty. He feels uncomfortably moved by this woman's unexpected, but not altogether unwelcome, show of genuine affection.  His gaze falls down to the table, focusing blindly on the still foamy content of his pint-glass and the motion forces her trembling palm to slide away from his face, pushing it into a gentle and unchallenged glide trough his unbound hair.

He takes a deep breath in a vain attempt to calm the wild pounding of his overwhelmed heart and, when he finally realizes that such a feat will be impossible, his instincts drive him to raise his head once again and seek Harry's emerald gaze across the smoke-filled room with a desperation that seems to fill his entire mind, body and soul like an almighty shout demanding help.

Their eyes meet without impediment across the distance separating them from one another and connect in such a way that speech seems, somehow, unnecessary.  He allows his gaze to settle over that deep sea of bright emerald without knowing precisely what emotions he's broadcasting but not really caring about what they may reveal any longer.  He's only conscious of his need to have the seeker come to him right now, in this very instance.  He needs to feel the sense of peace and reassurance that he's begun to associate with Harry's presence.  He needs the warmth that his seeker so easily brings into his life to help him fight the dreadful cold that his unpleasant conversation with the woman who is still standing so calmly right beside him has managed to awake within him.

As if pulled by a tightening invisible cord Harry pushes himself away from the bar and begins to walk towards him, never letting his gaze wander left nor right, never reducing his speed or allowing anyone to come directly between them, seemingly intent only on reaching his side as soon as his legs can manage the feat.

Severus watches the Gryffindor's graceful approach with exhilarated relief and his voice reflects the growing warmth that is beginning to spread like sunshine across his senses when he finally gathers enough presence of mind to pull himself away from the pub owner's touch in order to offer her his quiet answer:  
“I appreciate your worry on my behalf, Rosmerta, but I don't believe it necessary at this point.  Harry Potter may not be the wisest choice I've ever made, but I'm starting to believe that he can become the worthiest.”  
  
 **  
**


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13.**

  
Harry swallows hard, trying to keep a tight lid on his growing concern as he walks beside Severus along the deserted streets of Hogsmeade.  They left The Three Broomsticks abruptly around fifteen minutes ago and his companion hasn't managed to offer him a single explanation for their rather unceremonious exit so far.  He seems intent on putting them both through the aggravating process of traversing the village's abandoned streets aimlessly at breakneck speed, instead.

The cold winter wind is sneaking in between the cracks left in the spaces between one of the tightly closed buttons of his heavy trench coat and the next, making him shiver uncomfortably despite the thick flannel shirt and heavy jumper he's wearing underneath.  He has just cast his second Warming Charm of the night over both of them and is fully aware of the fact that he'll have to renew it in less than half an hour if they remain out in this cold for that long, but he's reluctant to repeat his offer of Apparating them back to his flat again.

He's missing the warmth of his fireplace with the fierceness of a man who knows that there are better, heated options out there to spend time with one's beloved and the idea of going back home and sharing a huge mug of spiced cocoa with Severus while seating comfortably on his living room sofa is becoming increasingly appealing to him.  Only his awareness of the Slytherin's usual reluctance to spend time in his flat has managed so far to keep him from stomping his trainer-clad foot on the ground with frustration and demanding they head back to his place right now.

He sighs loudly into the tick silence, attempting for the last time to relax enough to come to terms with the disconcerting fact that his Prince seems to have developed the urgent need to storm through the village streets like a man on a mission, clearly needing the mindless release that just walking out whatever it is that prompted him to request they abandon the pub's comforting warmth so abruptly may bring him, only—he can not force that knowledge to ease his growing concern and ends up breaking the quietude again, trying to reach out to his beloved in a bid to shed some light into whatever the hell happened back there.

“What did Rosmerta say to you, my love?  It was obvious that she wanted to approach you from the moment we entered her place and I didn't think it'd be so big a deal to give her the chance to speak to you in private.  Now I feel awfully guilty for letting her get so close, since she managed to put you in a foul mood in the blink of an eye.”

Severus startles visibly upon hearing him speak and finally stops his brisk pacing, coming to an abrupt halt at the end of the main street.  He takes what looks suspiciously like a fortifying breath before lifting his dark head up towards the heavens and allowing his gorgeous eyes to close tightly shut, looking for all intent and purposes like the very picture of a man in the throes of a fierce struggle with his own temper and leaving Harry with no other option but to stand there and stare silently at the tightly controlled mask that is so slowly taking over those beloved sharp features, feeling both useless and helpless to comfort the man he loves.

He despises the awful blankness that Severus so often conjures when he's upset, but has no idea whatsoever of what, exactly, Rosmerta could have possibly said to upset his Prince so badly.  He feels the instinctive need to step forwards and do something, but can't make up his mind about whether his rattled beloved requires a hug or a sympathetic ear and is ultimately unwilling to offer him either until he's finally certain that he won't end up making whatever is wrong worse with an ill-timed intervention.

“Severus?  What did she say to you?  Why are you so upset?  I thought we were having fun.  Everything was going swimmingly until I got the brilliant idea of allowing that damned woman to get close to you.”

A heavy sigh escapes Severus' tightly compressed lips in a frustrated little whoosh only a second before the most beautiful pair of ebony eyes he's ever seen settles over him, brimming with what appears to be genuine contrition.  
“I'm sorry that I'm being such a bear, Harry.  I'm the one who suggested coming here and now I've gone ahead and spoiled our date with all this drama.  There's no need for you to feel guilty about your desire to grant me a few moments of privacy with a woman who happens to mean a great deal to me.  Rosmerta and I... we go back a long way.  I've known her since I was eleven and she's grown to believe herself entitled to speak her mind about matters that very few others will dare to broach in my presence.”

“Why would she upset you like this?  She's been complaining about how infrequently you visit Hogsmeade for ages.”

Severus shrugs awkwardly, looking uncomfortable with the idea of continuing the discussion any further.   
“I suppose she felt compelled to say her piece while she could.  I haven't set foot inside The Broomsticks in years.  She claims I've been sorely missed around here.”

Harry's puzzled green gaze narrows with obvious disgust.   
“She tried to make you feel guilty about not coming around more often?  No wonder you felt so compelled to leave.  I wouldn't have wanted to stay, either.  She had no right to poke her nose into your business and make you feel ashamed of your need to stay away from Hogwarts.  Coming back here must have been hard enough for you.  The last thing you need right now is to have her making everything worse with unreasonable demands.”

“Things are not as cut and dried between the two of us, Harry.  I owe a lot to Rosmerta.  She saw me plenty of times dealing with members of The Order one night and Death Eaters the next.  She knew that I met with both sides.  Yet she never, ever, revealed to either group that she'd seen me betraying them to the other.”

“It wouldn't have mattered even if she told, Severus.  Both camps believed you to be their spy on the other side.  You would have successfully spun whatever she said to your advantage and she would have been killed on the spot.  Rosmerta isn't the kind of woman who'd have remained silent for the simple purpose of protecting you.  She was looking out for herself, too.  You need to stop feeling indebted to people who never moved a finger to actually help you, my Prince.  She may love you in her own weird way, but she saw more than she should have and still kept quiet.  That tells me right there that she'd have never risked her own safety to pull you out of a tight spot.”

Severus shakes his head from side to side and looks up the hill, towards the distant lights of Hogwarts, with regret-filled dark eyes.  
“Not all of us are bold Gryffindors at heart.  Just because she never supported me openly doesn't mean she didn't do it in her own way.  I became invisible after I murdered Albus.  People who'd have trusted me with their lives suddenly began to look right through me.  I felt so alone, so... lost.  She was the only one who remained willing to look me in the eyes during my last year here.  She was the only one who ever dared to touch me, Harry.  It was no grand gesture on her part, I know that.  It was just a small press of her hand against my shoulder, but it meant the world to me.”

“Severus...”

“It doesn't matter if she has the right to challenge my abandonment of her or not.  The fact remains that she reached out to me when no one else was willing to do it and I haven't bothered to remember that small action in a very long time.  I just realized that I owe a lot of people more than the silence I've offered them.  I've been battling the ghosts of the war for so long that I've allowed them to pull me away from friendships that were once precious to me.

“I haven't visited Minerva of my own free will in years and, whenever we coincide in some Ministry function or other, I tend to avoid her like the plague.  I have the bad habit of holding onto my grudges for so long that they end up robing me off the chance to repair friendships that I should have never abandoned so easily.  I told Minnie that I forgave her lack of faith in me during the last year of the war and yet I haven't managed to turn that assertion into something more than words.”

Harry's heart clenches in reaction to the unmistakable tone of regret that taints his Prince's gorgeous voice.  His arm shoots out of its own volition, curling lovingly around Severus' slender waist in a move that's meant to bring the man instantly closer.  The Slytherin stiffens almost immediately, growing noticeably taller as his lanky body straightens to it's full intimidating height in the blink of an eye.

“Harry, what are you...?”  Severus frowns with confusion, resisting Harry's insistent tugging out of habit and ends up blinking with embarrassed disbelief when the seeker sighs loudly enough to interrupt his puzzled protest, raises himself on tiptoes and kisses him fully on the mouth for all he's worth.  The caress lasts enough to leave them both breathless and soon Harry leans away the tiniest fraction to growl fiercely against his ear:

“I'm trying to hug you, you damned oblivious idiot!  Now will you stop fighting me off at every step of the way and allow me to pull you tightly against my chest, so that I may be able to offer you the comfort you need right now?”

“Oh!”  Severus is so stumped that he becomes paralyzed with shocked surprise for what Harry guesses will be a very brief second indeed and he doesn't dare wasting any more time on ridiculous arguments.  He steps forwards once again, pulling on his Prince insistently until not a single inch separates the tips of his comfy trainers from Severus' shiny boots.  He then drags the man even closer, using the glide of his open palm as it travels along the protruding ridges of the Slytherin's spine to press that slender body firmly against his own chest, until the potioneer has no other option but to sigh in exhausted surrender and allow his neck to bend down low enough for him to rest his pale forehead against Harry's waiting shoulder.

They remain thus for what seems like an eternity before Severus dares to voice his thoughts out loud:  
“I don't know where you find the patience to deal with all my nonsense, Potter.  I'd had given myself up for a bad job after our first night together and gone out in search of a less troublesome lover.”

Harry chuckles softly, enjoying the simple pleasure of having his Prince so close.  So willing to lean against him.  So _his_ to take care of, at least for the time being.  
“I like troublesome lovers, sweetheart.  They add spice to one's life.  Now tell me the truth: is our current closeness really so frightening to you that you must revert back to calling me Potter?  I'll have you know that I find the telling habit adorable.”

Severus' dismayed gasp doesn't surprise him in the slightest and he curls his arms around those deliciously slender hips more firmly, anchoring his self-conscious beloved in place just in case he decides to attempt a flustered retreat.The potioneer surprises him by remaining precisely where he is and offering him a simple acknowledgment in response to his playful comment instead:  
“Sometimes your knowledge of the reasons that drive me to behave the way I do comes too close to the bulls-eye for my comfort, Harry.”

“That knowledge will never be used against you, Severus.  It's just a tool that helps me anticipate your needs at any given time.  A means to understand you better.  The measure of my desire to get to know you in a way that no one else has ever managed to do before.”

Severus takes a deep breath before lifting his pale forehead away from his shoulder and Harry feels the absence of that comforting contact all the way down to his toes.  
“Then you'll know that all this touching that's going on between us feels utterly foreign to me.  I've never been held this lovingly before.  And in such a public setting, too.  I—this is difficult for me, Harry.”

“Do you really want me to let go of you or are you objecting to our embrace because you are worried that someone will come across us?  I know the middle of Hogsmeade is really too public a place to give anyone a cuddle, but there's nobody else about, Severus, and you needed some comfort just now.  It's not as if we are going at it on the cobblestones or something.”

A short bark of startled laughter makes it past the potion master's lips.  
“Going at it on the cobblestones?  That would be all kinds of uncomfortable, Potter.”

“That's what Cushioning Charms are for, gorgeous.  Not that I'm that keen on having everyone gawk at us in appalled fascination, if you ever feel the need to help me get rid of a good few years of the most intense sexual frustration you can possibly imagine.

“The next time we make love is going to be pretty much like the first, only better, because there won't be a drop of alcohol anywhere near us.  I'm going to love you all night long on a proper bed, with a fire roaring on the hearth and the lights turned down low.  We are going to have all the time in the world to look and touch and feel each other and I won't place a single touch upon you that is tainted with my fear that it may be the last caress I'll ever give you.

“That kind of loving isn't a spectacle meant for the masses, Severus.  My affection for you is a very private thing.  I don't mind hugging you out here, on the streets, for everyone to see but the privilege of actually seeing your bare body and being allowed to touch it freely is a treasure that I'm not willing to share.  That sort of intimacy will tie us together, help us belong to one another in a way that's too private to be witnessed by anyone outside our small circle of two.”

Severus smiles ever so briefly, clearly pleased with those words.  His dark head turns slightly to the left, allowing his tall frame to align with Harry's own in such a way that he's able to look directly into his bright green eyes.  Their gazes clash and merge together in a peaceful contemplation that feels open and full to bursting with the budding beauty of trust.  
“You have the gift of the gab, Mr. Potter.  Whenever you open your mouth to give me a lecture on the finer points of love I find myself aching to believe that I can reach the same levels of exalted passion.  You could inspire armies to defend you to their last glimmer of magic.  Albus would have been so proud of you.”

“Albus was a manipulative old coot, sweetheart.  I don't speak like this to gain your favor.  I'm just voicing my opinions out loud in the hope that they'll help you understand better what I want from you.  This courtship of ours is not a game, Severus.  It means a great deal to me.  This is my chance to finally reach out for all the things that I've always dreamed of having.”

“You dream of being loved by me.  That's such a strange dream to have.  Some people may even argue that it sounds more like a nightmare than a dream, Harry.  I'm afraid that your hopes for the future don't seem very wise.”

Harry snorts lightly in amusement, refusing to take the self-disparaging implications that underline his Prince's statement to heart.  They've had this conversation enough times already as far as he's concerned, and he has decided to stop trying to fight this particular battle every single time that Severus brings it up.  Only time will settle the man's understandable fears, anyway.  Words alone can only lead them so far.

He smiles gently instead of answering, allowing his hands to uncurl from their comfortable position around Severus' hips and letting them travel slowly upwards along those spindly arms, until he's able to settle them oh-so-lovingly over his Prince's sharp cheekbones, proceeding to cradle that pale and narrow face as if it were a fragile crystal even though his touch is actually forcing that visage to remain utterly still.  Locking it firmly in place while he robs it of the opportunity to turn away and avoid the sincerity that he can feel shining in the depths of his own eyes as he whispers his answer directly against those lips that have opened ever so slightly in a gasp of startled surprise.

“Loving you may not be the wisest thing I've ever done, but you are most certainly worth whatever trouble my feelings for you have brought me.  Do not ever let anyone else tell you otherwise, Severus.  Do you understand me?

“Let those who are interested in doing such things argue the point of whether you deserve me, or I deserve you, or whatever other assorted bullshit they wish to ponder about until they are all blue in the face and their throats have run out of moisture.  My mind is made up already and no one will be allowed to mess with this decision.  My heart is mine to rule over, that's the plain and simple truth.  I'm a bold Gryffindor, remember?  Wisdom isn't what we are after, that's a rather Ravenclaw goal.  We, lions, go for pure gold, my love, and there's no treasure on Earth that's more valuable or precious than your heart, Severus Snape.”

His heart skips a single beat when instead of startling backwards in agitated retreat, as he's been half expecting his beloved to do, the man leans delicately against his touch, pressing the sharp lines of his cheekbones even more firmly against the palm of the hands that cradle them in a gesture that makes him look like an overgrown black kitten.

Dark eyes close in a silent offer of beautiful surrender as his love remains very still, quietly showing him the kind of trust that he's certain hasn't ever been offered to anyone before now.  A warm ball of sheer gratitude settles firmly in the pit of his stomach and he lifts himself up on tiptoes to place a single reverent kiss on Severus' pale forehead.  The cold breeze pushes the long tresses that frame that utterly beloved face playfully between them, forcing those inky black locks to tangle loosely around his wrist, his fingertips and the hard line of his Prince's shoulders like delicate coils of silken midnight.

“I love you with everything that I am, Severus Snape.”  He whispers the biggest truth that his heart has ever known almost ferociously into the surrounding silence, allowing each and every one of those passionately felt syllables to fall over his precious Slytherin's visage like a soft benediction.  Paper-thin eyelids flutter open once again and those eyes that are so dark and so full of often wounded emotions look directly into his own with hungry need.

“It's ironic how in tune we seem to be about this relationship of ours, Harry.  You've just told me that loving me may not be wise, but you think it's still worth it, and I feel illogically compelled to confess that I said the very same thing to Rosmerta not so long ago.

“You claim to love me and I trust you enough to believe that you do.  I trust you enough to want to open my heart to you and see where that will lead me.  It's certainly not the wisest choice I've ever made, but I think it's worth it, too.  I think you are worth the risk, Harry Potter, and I fervently hope that one of these days I may finally be able to look you in the eye and feel the genuine need to tell you that I love you right back.” **  
  
**  
  



	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14.**

  

Potter is strutting around shirtless, showing off his maddeningly glorious physique with the sort of shamelessness that Severus finds both deeply uncomfortable and absolutely enthralling in equal measure.  He can't help the gasp that escapes his lips at the sight of all that masculine perfection and the seeker turns towards him as soon as he hears him, looking directly into his eyes while his right hand swiftly removes the loudly whistling kettle from the muggle stove.  
“I'll have your tea ready in a tick, my prince.  You don't have to wait for it here, unless you need something else.”  
  
The comment flusters him to no end and his mind begins to scream at him to back away as fast as his legs can take him, to return to the safety of the dining room before he allows his dark gaze to rake that exposed chest once more.  He needs to retreat before he opens his mouth and says something truly foolish.  Before Potter manages to find a way to make him feel even more ridiculous and out of place.  Even more aroused.

“Severus?”

He jumps as the other man whispers his name with obvious puzzlement.  Tanned fingers set the kettle on the polished surface of the huge island that stands in the middle of the kitchen before curling around the marble's edge until the knuckles are white from the effort of supporting their owner's weight as he leans slightly forwards, arms straining to contain the barely restrained energy that imbues every single line of muscle Severus can see.   
  
Harry's posture turns the relaxed fluidity of his gorgeous frame into the chiseled rigidity of a jungle cat frozen in the act of preparing to jump, and Severus is suddenly very aware of the fact that he's alone with this man.  Alone with a hunk who, not only has spelled out his desire for him in multiple occasions, but had also been joking about taking him right in the middle of Hogsmeade's main thoroughfare just last night.

“Are you alright, my love?  You look rattled.”

Severus shivers as the seeker's voice becomes uncharacteristically rough, caressing his agitated senses like the coarse but beguiling touch of a calloused fingertip.  
“I—Yes.  Of course I'm alright.  I was just...”

“Lying to me.  To yourself.  To both of us.”

“Excuse me?”

“Do I really scare you so much that you feel compelled to imply you've come into the kitchen looking for _tea_?  I've told you this a million times already, Severus.  I won't pounce unless you want me to, so you'll have to make your wishes in that direction clear.”

Severus swallows nervously and the wild rush of his blood slows down to a snail-paced meandering inside his veins.  His breathing hitches as he watches Harry push himself ever so slightly forwards against the surface of the island's counter-top, holding so tightly onto the cold marble that Severus becomes convinced that the strained contact is the only thing keeping the Gryffindor firmly pinned to his own side of the kitchen. The only thing restraining his companion from leaping over the relatively flimsy barrier of polished wood and gleaming stone that stands between them to ravish him where he stands.

For the first time in his life the very idea that someone feels passionate enough towards him to actually desire him with such blatant physicality doesn't sound like the most ridiculous fabrication on Earth.  The thought neither humiliates nor terrifies him into his usual denial.  He is not ashamed of his positive reaction to his companion's obvious desire.  He is responsive, engaged and genuinely tempted, so he opens his mouth and allows the first thing that crosses his mind to get past his lips, unbidden:   
“I was just admiring the view.”  
  
He cringes as soon as the words are out and he realizes what he said, becoming fully aware of exactly how much he has confessed.  Of how foolishly he's left himself open to the scorn of a man who can't possibly desire him as much as his attitude implies.

Harry doesn't laugh at him, though.  He neither smirks with malicious triumph nor explains in excruciatingly painful detail just how short Severus falls from his ideal of physical perfection.  The seeker flashes him a seductive smile instead, and literally purrs a thoroughly unexpected complaint:  
“That's rather unfair.   I'd love to see you without your shirt too.  A little reciprocation will take you a long way with me, Severus.”

Severus recoils, feeling utterly dismayed.  Ebony-black eyes lower towards his own scrawny chest while an instinctively protective hand raises to guard the long line of buttons that keep his prim robes fastened.  
“It wouldn't be the same.  I'm not like you, Harry.  And you've already seen everything there is to see.”  He stammers those three half-witted sentences with embarrassed mortification before his mind finally orders him to stop talking, lest he humiliates himself further by attempting to describe his own shortcomings.

“Yes.  I've seen all of you, Severus.  I've seen you fully armored and I've also seen you totally disarmed.  I've seen you strong and I've seen you weak.  I've seen you dressed and also undressed.  I've been given the great honor of having you rest in the cradle of my arms while you were bare and gloriously exposed.”  Harry's quiet answer bridges the mental distance he's so busy trying to build between them, shattering the fragile shield he hasn't yet had enough time to reinforce before it's properly formed and he lashes out:  
“Then you know I'm not some goddamned Adonis with a rippling six pack and a year-round tan.”

The Gryffindor looks at him intently, studying him with the quiet thoughtfulness of a man who's determined to unravel him one layer at a time:  
“Do you have to be?”

Severus snorts huffily, absolutely miffed at Harry's attempt to play clueless when it comes to this issue.  He pinches the bridge of his nose impatiently before glaring at the seeker with all the venom of a man who's being forced against his will to spell out precisely how hopelessly ugly he knows himself to be.  
“Well _—you_ are.  I'd have thought  you'd want a lover you can look at without having the awful sight traumatize your myopic eyes, Potter.”

To his credit Harry doesn't even flinch at his abrasive tone.  He straightens himself slowly and proceeds to come around the kitchen island, approaching him with the kind of careful watchfulness that keeps Severus pinned to the spot.  He's unable to retreat towards the sitting room.  Unable to do anything but remain exactly where he is, waiting for the prowling lion before him to finally reach him.  To circle him slowly and do with him what he will.  
“I've never particularly cared for fatuous Lockhart lookalikes, Severus.  And, just for your information, the sight of you doesn't hurt my myopic eyes.  It soothes them with the loveliness that embodies the elegant creature I love.”

Severus' heart begins to pound while his breathing halts altogether and his eyes widen with the unnerved fragility of a man who desperately wants to believe every word he hears.  
“Love can not survive without desire and I have never been able to inspire that particular emotion in anyone.”

“Yes, you have.  You are inspiring it right now.  I'm dying to posses you in the most physical way you can imagine.  I'm desperate to peel those clothes off you and touch your scarred skin until you carry the imprint of my fingertips on every single inch of your body.  I'm yearning to kiss you passionately.  Taste your unique flavor on my tongue and drink from it until I've forgotten the taste of everything else.  I could devour you inch by inch, Severus.  I could savor you like the most decadent wine, become drunk on the flavor of your skin, your lips, your hair and that lovely long neck of yours.”

Severus shivers as Harry's fierce eyes rake his ugly and reedy body with barely contained hunger.  A deep sense of flustered exhilaration floods his senses when the Gryffindor walks around the kitchen counter to place a brazen right hand over the row of fussily closed buttons that fasten his dark robes.   
“Will you let me show you how much I desire you, my love?  Will you let me unleash my hunger upon you?  Will you trust me to keep you safe, to sate all your needs, to love you like I've loved you once before?”

Severus' senses reel as he struggles against the temptation to surrender himself to this man who claims to crave him.  He feels recklessly confident, beautiful and sexy for the first time in his memory.  He's responding with uncharacteristic abandon to the unfamiliar experience of knowing himself so openly desired and feels inexplicably drunk on this man's words, hopelessly snared like a wild doe in the inescapable trap of a relentless hunter.  He tilts his head backwards in unvoiced surrender, offering his pale neck to the lips that are so close to his skin that he can literally feel every warm puff of body-warmed air his companion exhales settling over his tingling nerve endings at rhythmical intervals.

“Blessed Circe... You're actually going to let me have you, aren't you, my Prince?  You're going to give yourself to me, just like you did the last time.” Potter's voice sounds rough and breathless, aroused beyond the restraint of polished civility.  An open-mouthed kiss lands on the pulse-point that beats madly just above the dark hem of Severus' starched collar and the sheer heat fueling that small, reverent contact makes him gasp out loud and close his eyes with trusting abandon.  
  
“You liked that, didn't you?  You like the feel of my lips upon you.  You're going to love having my mouth all over your body.  You.  Are.  Going.  To.  Let.  Me.  Eat.  You.  Alive, Severus.”  Harry growls softly, coming up on his tiptoes to whisper the words directly in his ear before ending his statement with a playful bite to Severus' earlobe, driving him literally mad with pent-up lust.  The Slytherin groans, growing increasingly distressed with unfulfilled desire and turns his head towards the side in a move that leaves his neck exposed even further to the hunger of Harry's wicked lips.

“You want me.  You.  Want.  __This__.  And I'm going to make you mine, my prince.”

Severus closes his eyes in a vain attempt to remain in control of his unraveling senses, but that's a battle he's definitely losing for the first time in his life.  He's utterly lost and he knows it.  He's never been so turned on in his life, and the scrape of his companion's teeth against the skin of his neck is obliterating whatever is left of his sanity one open-mouthed kiss at a time.

“Pott—Harry, please...”  His own voice sounds odd to his ears and he flinches slightly away, opening dark eyes to stare directly into a bright sea of scorching emerald fire.

“It's alright, my love, it's alright.  I've got you, Severus.  I've.  Got.  You.” Potter shushes him, carding calloused fingertips through the tangled locks of his long hair in a timeless gesture of comfort that coaxes Severus into relaxing under the simple touch, making him feel safe and secure. Loved beyond his wildest dreams.   
  
A moment later the Gryffindor claims his lips with such sweet kiss that Severus feels it touch the deepest core of him.  It instantly warms him from the outside in, sending wave upon wave of fierce desire through his every vein and sinew.  Through each and every one of his brain-cells. Throughout the entirety of his body and mind and soul.

His lips soften and open under Harry's loving assault.  Unfurling, like the tightly closed petals of a delicate bloom, in silent invitation for Harry's curious tongue to delve in deeper and the seeker doesn't hesitate in taking advantage of the opportunity to explore every inch of his mouth like an overzealous cartographer.

“Severus.  Oh, Merlin!  Severus...” Potter's hands are suddenly pulling at his buttons.  Frantic fingertips wrestle with the small fastenings that keep his robes closed as the brat attempts to open them with the kind of bewildering desperation that no one else has ever displayed when divesting him before.  Severus' heavy-lidded black eyes stare incredulously at the Gryffindor's intently focused expression, marveling at the amount of sheer lust that is plastered all over Harry's young and attractive face.   
  
"I desire you totally, Severus Snape.  I crave your slender body, your razor sharp mind and your loyal, courageous soul with a ravenous hunger that would have frightened regular blokes. I thank Merlin every day for the fact that you're the bravest man I know."“  
  
“Harry...”   
  
"It's true, my love. Sometimes I feel I can not breathe unless I see you.” Harry rasps roughly as his hands finally make contact with the pale skin at the hollow of Severus' neck and the Slytherin frowns with the unpleasantly unwelcome sense of Deja-Vu.   He's about to protest when he finally realizes that he's heard those words before.  He remembers very clearly how much they unnerved him as he stood in this same kitchen, listening intently to them while the most terrible feeling of absolute panic washed over him.

“I'm not ready for this.  I'm not ready for whatever it is that you really want from me.  I can't give you...” He starts whispering frantically and then takes a jerky step backwards, stumbling blindly away as soon as he realizes that he's said those words before.  He's said them in this very context. He remembers with crystal clear recall the sight of Potter's eyes widening in shocked dismay as they watched him shake from head to toes, falling victim to his own growing terror like a small child caught in a nightmare.

Potter grabs him unceremoniously by the shoulders, anchoring him firmly in place with a grip so gentle that it's threatening to break him:  
“Ssshhh, Severus, ssshhh.  Listen to me, please.  There's no reason to panic.  I really love you, I swear.  I want you in every platonic way there is and I need you like this, too.  I will never, ever, hurt you.”

Severus wakes with a start, sitting bolt upright in his bed and feeling utterly disoriented.  His dark eyes rake the deserted corners of his shadowy bedroom, seeking the companion he's beginning to realize was never really beside him.  He feels frighteningly breathless and slightly lightheaded.  His heart is pounding a mile a minute and his bed sheets are tangled around his weak-as-jelly legs, sticking unpleasantly to his come-splattered pajamas in a way that finally draws his attention to the fact that he has had his first wet dream in decades.  A dream featuring a thoroughly passionate version of Harry Potter.  A dream that has left him shaken.

His trembling right hand burrows under the crumpled pillow, curling tightly around his wand only a second before he vanishes the cooling mess in his lap with a jerkily pronounced Scourgify.  
“ _I can't believe I just came all over myself like a randy teenager.”_ He thinks, feeling utterly mortified.

The conversation they had outside of Hogsmeade the night before must have flustered him more than he'd imagined.  He'd been aware of his own discomfort at the time. He'd realized he was panicking as soon as he noticed that the Gryffindor was trying to grab in the middle of the road, but once he'd allowed Harry's arms to close around him, he'd felt so safe and cared for that he hadn't found the strength to shy away from the loving contact.

The rest of their date had been slightly stilted, despite their mutual efforts to appear untouched by the heaviness of the confessions they'd shared, and Severus had been ultimately unable to withstand both the weight of his companion's understanding gaze and the overwhelming warmth of the hand the brat had wrapped around his own, so he'd ended up cutting their evening short about an hour after they'd exited Rosmerta's with a mumbled excuse that he's pretty sure Harry had been able to see through. 

“There's no reason for you to freak out about this so much, Severus.  Sharing your innermost thoughts and fears with someone who's willing to adore you doesn't make you weaker.  Love isn't always a threat. It's not something you should either be ashamed of desiring, or worried about acknowledging.  Lust in itself is all well and good, but it can never give you the sort of emotional support that you need most in your life.  No man is an island, my prince, and you've been forced to live as if you are one for far too long.”  Those had been Harry's parting words to him and they'd kept circling his mind heavily for the rest of the evening.

He'd been too unsettled to read.  Too distracted to attempt brewing.  Too anxious to focus on anything that wasn't the dawning realization that Harry Potter wanted him in a way that no one else had ever wanted him before.  He'd gone to bed feeling still wide awake, head filled to burst with images from their increasingly emotionally involved dates, and must have fallen asleep almost without noticing.

Now he's having trouble coming to terms with the rather disturbing fact that his agitated mind ended up dreaming a steamy encounter worthy of one of those trashy romantic novels that he'd grown tired of confiscating while he'd been a teacher.

He has vague recollections of their drunken one-night-stand, but nothing in his hazy memories can compete with the scorching hot made-up scene that is still blazing across his mind's eye in heart-pounding technicolor.  He'd felt so desired, so utterly wanted in his dream that he can hardly give credit to the vulnerable neediness he allowed himself to display while in its throes.   
  
His mind had created the perfect of scenario in order to allow him not only to feel safe with the idea of surrendering himself completely to Harry's all-consuming hunger, but also to experience nothing but sheer pleasure as he'd accepted the man's kisses and passionate touch, as he drank in each and every one of his raw-toned avowals of desire.

He shivers suddenly in the eerie quiet of his bedroom, feeling so alone that his mind cringes at the realization that he'd gladly exchange his lonely reality for the bright glow of a dreamed up world that has never been real.  He is inexplicably certain that the Potter of his dreams would come running to comfort him if he ever gathered the courage to call him right now.  The Potter of his dreams would be happy to hold him through the night and whisper sweet nonsense in his ear until his eyes drop closed and he falls back into sleep.

“ _You know that the real Potter would do the same, don't you, Severus?  He's already done it, in fact. Isn't that what you remember the most from the night you shared with him?  You recall the warmth of his embrace and the rhythmic sound of his heartbeat as he cradled you in his arms with a clarity that unnerves you.  You remember the masculine rumble of his sleep-roughened voice murmuring constantly in your ear, soothing your unvoiced insecurities while he offered you his love without any restraint.”_ His treacherous mind reminds him as he flops back against his pillows, feeling way too tired and cranky to control his whirling thoughts.

“I was drunk.  I thought he was drunk, too.  I never even imagined he could desire me so much while he's stone-cold sober.”  He whispers out loud rebelliously and cringes inwardly at his mind's scornful snort.

“ _How many times has he told you that he loves you?  It's ridiculous to imagine that he could love you only in a platonic way.  He's a Gryffindor, for Merlin's sake!, those bloody lions are as touchy-freely as they come.  They don't have cold, asexual, little minds like yours, Severus.”_

“I am not asexual.”

“ _Of course you are, you frigid bastard.  Although something must have changed in the last few hours or you'd have never dreamed what you did.  That sort of thing may sound tame to everybody else, but it was practically pornographic for prudish little old you.  You've come out of the deep freeze, Severus.  You.  Think.  The.  Savior.  Is.  Hot, don't you?”_

“Shut up.  Shut. Up.  SHUT UP!” Severus screeches into the suffocating silence, bringing trembling pale hands up to cover his own ears in a gesture that brims with utter desperation.  His loud words echo around the walls for a full minute, bouncing maddeningly inside his head and settling back into his mind like harmful little thorns that he doesn't have a hope in hell to vanish.

He sits ramrod straight in the middle of his bed, blinking anxiously into empty escape and feels so utterly cold, so goddamned alone after the warm adoration he'd experienced inside that ridiculously sappy dream that he can't stand the solitude that surrounds him.  It threatens to suffocate him, crush him under a weight he can't shake off.  His slender frame begins to shake in the coldness of the room as his heavy blankets form a soft woolen pool around his narrow hips, leaving his pajama-clad body exposed to the unrelenting chill of the early February morning.

In a fit of sheer neediness he Accio's his favorite vest out of the closet.  Snatching the dark cloth out of the air as soon as it comes close enough and holding desperately onto it.  Deeply troubled black eyes settle over the iridescent silver designs that keep shifting magically along the narrow lapel just before he lifts the vest to his chest and presses it against his heart in a thoroughly childlike gesture that he's glad no one can see.

The magic of the runes that soak each individual thread flares up on contact, imbuing his shaking fingertips with the warmth of a paternal embrace, exactly as they've been so lovingly spelled to do by the bright and crazy wizard who had cared enough for him to love him like a son.  He holds onto the vest even more tightly, feeling frightened beyond reason by the nature of his dream, by the aching sense of loneliness it left behind, and can't help his need to voice his misgivings out loud, bringing them into a wobbly and whispered life that breaks the heavy silence:

“I don't know what I'm doing.  I feel so strange...  It's like I'm out of sync with myself, with my own thoughts and desires.  I'm beginning to change, becoming a different man altogether.And I'm not sure if that is for the better or not.  Harry is so forceful, so certain about us that I feel like a flimsy balloon being swept into a wild ride by a human-shaped hurricane.  I'm disoriented and... lost. I wish so hard you were here, Albus.  I'd love to know what you'd have made of all this madness, what wise advice you would have given me.  I've never been the best at dealing with emotions and I... I've never needed you more.”

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15.**

 

Severus stares at the broom in Harry's hand with the disconcerted puzzlement of a man who hasn't been this uncomfortably close to one of those flimsy death traps in ages.  The excited gleam in the Gryffindor's eyes tells him that whatever the seeker has plotted isn't something he's likely to find particularly pleasing, so he frowns warily and decides to make his point first:

“I'm not fond of brooms, Potter.”

Harry smiles gently and walks confidently closer, leaning boldly into his personal space in order to push a long lock of Severus' dark hair away from his pale forehead with disarming tenderness:  
“I thought you were serious when you told me that you trust me enough to come where I'm trying to lead you.”

Severus stiffens in instinctive response to both the gentleness of the contact and the soft, coaxing quality of Harry's reproof.  His frown becomes even more pronounced and he eyes the gleaming wood held casually in the seeker's gloved hand with increasing trepidation.  
“You are twisting my words to suit your purposes and, even if you weren't, I can't imagine how that particular assertion of mine could have lead you to believe I'd be willing to prance around atop that flimsy stick with you.”

“Flying is a huge part of my life, Severus.  This is not only what I do for a living.  It's also how I relieve stress.  My first flying lesson is one of my fondest childhood memories and I haven't found another activity that gives me the kind of peace that prancing around atop a flimsy stick usually gives me.  I've wanted to share my joy of flying with you for a very long time.  It'd mean a lot to me if you consented to come flying with me, my prince.”

Severus shakes his head regretfully and takes a step backwards, disentangling the careful digits that are still carding through the long locks of his hair.  He can't help the small pang of guilt that flares in the pit of his stomach when he hears Harry's disappointed sigh and feels compelled to explain his negative response to what should have been a reasonable enough request.  
“I hate flying, Harry.  I prefer Apparition or even the Floo as a mode of transport.  I don't see the point of hopping atop a charmed twig and freeze myself into an icicle for no good reason whatsoever.”

Harry's head turns slightly to the left and those bright emerald eyes acquire a thoughtful look as they study him quietly, following his every step when he walks across the room and takes refuge behind his seldom used till.  
“Nobody flies to get anywhere nowadays, Severus.  Flying is not about traveling anymore.  It's about having fun.  It's about the freedom you feel when you are up next to the clouds and the entire world falls so far away that most daily frustrations become small and unimportant.  Flying is about trusting your instincts and letting everything else go.  It's about realizing that life can be rewarding even when you're as insignificant as a small spec of dust floating in the wind.  Flying is... grounding.”

“I don't need grounding.  I'm grounded enough, I assure you.  I've never deluded myself into believing that I matter all that much to anything or anyone.  I have absolutely no need to re-discover how very small and pathetic I actually am when compared to the vastness that surrounds me, so why don't you park that blasted broom of yours against the back wall and tell me whether you want to have dinner at the bistro round the corner, or go all the way to Codman Street and try that Indian place you've been raving about all week?”

“Why are you so reluctant to join me for a small spin around the Alley?  I've seen you fly before and you're not half-bad at it.  You were even good enough to be the school's second Quidditch referee.”

“Being able to perform a task without looking like a nitwit while forced to do it doesn't that mean I enjoy it, Harry.  I was often terrorized by your father and his goons while flying on my school broom.  I never made it into the Slytherin's Quidditch team while I was a student due to the marauder's vicious sabotage of my flying gear.  I couldn't practice safely at all and ended up developing an instinctive tendency to feel utter terror at the very idea of getting on a broom.  I just—I can't relax enough to enjoy the experience, so it's no use.  I'll never be able to feel the kind of unconcerned pleasure that you are trying to share.”

Harry looks utterly stricken at the mention of his father's role in his dislike of flying and Severus feels even more guilty about the unnecessary bluntness of his explanation.  James Potter had been an utter idiot and it's just bad form to rub that fact in his son's face.  Still, he can't figure out how else he could have possibly explained his irrational dislike of flying without mentioning the marauders.   
  
“I'm sorry that my father was such a git to you, sweetheart.  He must have felt threatened by your flying skills or he wouldn't have targeted them at all.  I can't believe that his manipulative cheating is going to rob me off an experience that I've been looking forwards to enjoying for so long.  I don't even remember him, you know?  But he's been a right pain in my butt ever since I realized he wasn't the saint people kept trying to portray.”

“I'm really sorry, Harry.”

"You're not the one who needs to feel sorry, Severus.  I'm the one who is at fault here.  Gosh!  I can't believe how selfish I am being.  I've been dreaming about flying with you for ages and now I just feel bad about it.  I've made so many plans without bothering to consult you, expecting you to go along with them just because I made them."   
  
“Harry...”

"It's true. I can't believe I dared to show up here, broom in hand, despite the fact that I've never even asked you if you'd care to go out for a spin with me and you never agreed to come. Ginny would have ripped my head off if I treated her like this and Hermione would probably still be lecturing me about the importance of proper communication."   
  
"Oh, please!  I'd ask you to spare me the Gryffindor melodrama if it wasn't so ridiculously entertaining." Severus snorts, despite his growing discomfort with Harry's unexpected bout of angsty self-flagellation. "Surely you can see that you are making a mountain out of a tiny anthill, Harry."  
  
"But I do this all the time, don't I?  It's not just the flying, Severus.  It's _everything_.  I've been ignoring all the subtle clues you send me about how comfortable you're with this —with _us_ , from the beginning.  I mean, come on, you've been as jumpy as a scalded cat every time I've come near you since we went out to Rosmerta's.  There's no way you would have reacted positively to an activity that practically demands close physical proximity, is there?  But I still keep pushing you, trying to get you to accept the kind of closeness you're obviously not ready for.”

Severus gasps with shock as soon as his brain makes sense of Harry's agitated last sentence.  He blushes bright red and his dark eyes grow as round as polished marbles as he stares unblinkingly at the sheepish expression that is beginning to blossom across his companion's obnoxiously attractive features.   
“Oops!  I'm sorry.  I shouldn't have mentioned that last part at all.  It wasn't a complaint, Severus.  I swear. You have every right in the world to feel uncomfortable with my touchy-feely nature.  I just—I don't really know what the hell happened.  You seemed to be growing comfortable enough with my harmless pawing before we went to Hogsmeade and then everything went to hell.  It's not so bad.  I mean you let me hold your hand sometimes, and—yeah.  But we haven't really kissed since then and... I just wish you'd let me come a bit closer.  This is a courtship, after all.”

Severus stiffens from head to toes, despite his conscious attempt to avoid it.  
“I find it a bit odd that you'd think me so unapproachable, bearing in mind that this courtship of ours started right after I let you bugger me into the mattress.  I believe you've already come as close to me as you're likely to get, Potter.”

Harry winces upon hearing his remark and laughs slightly hysterically.  
“And now you're mad at me and my big mouth.  You only ever revert back to that dreaded “Potter” when you're so ticked off that you actually forget we are trying to be boyfriends.”

“Boyfriends?” Severus questions sharply, taken absolutely aback by that sickeningly sweet label.

“What else do you want me to call you?  You'll start running for the hills as soon as I mention the word 'lovers', and only Godric knows what you'll do if I ever dare to bring up the even more contentious concepts of future betrothed, husband or bonded-partner.”

“Betrothed?”  Severus chokes on thin air.  His eyes bulge right out of their sockets and the rigidity of his posture finally collapses into a bewildered slump.  His jaw becomes slack until it drops unbecomingly open and he's positively certain that he must look like the very picture of gormless stupidity as he blinks in dazed incomprehension directly into the very frustrated green gaze of the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Drive-Him-Crazy  “You want to _marry_ me?  Are you nuts, Potter?”

“ _Nuts_?”  Harry hisses the one word that seems to have managed to dry his seemingly endless well of loving patience and crosses those indubitably strong arms of his across his athletic chest, looking positively incensed.  “What the hell do you mean by 'nuts'?  Of course I want to marry you, you, idiot!  Isn't that the bloody point of courtship?”

Severus flounders as Harry's frustrated snarl reaches his ears and he has to brace himself against the till counter, just to stay upright.  He feels breathless and suddenly dizzy.  He's been rendered speechless by the very notion that the seeker wants so much more than a semi-formal affair.  More than an open-ended relationship that could be easily dissolved the moment either of them decides to turn his back on the other, creating the kind of emotional semi-entanglement that would allow both of them to walk away, unharmed, should their hopes for the future turn to ashes.   
“I thought you wanted sex and... companionship.”

“I do.”  Harry answers quietly and then frowns, clearly unable to understand the source of his agitation.

“You can get both of those things without a permanent commitment.  We can keep seeing each other like this.  Even more intimately than this, eventually, Harry.  We should be able to keep doing this for as long as it takes you to get bored of me.  There is absolutely no need to mention the word 'marriage'.”

“Why on earth would I ever get bored of you?  And what do you mean there's no need to mention the word _'_ marriage _'_?  Where the hell do you imagine this relationship of ours is leading, Severus?  I have no intention of going anywhere without you.  I.  Fucking.  Love.  You, you, idiot!”  
  
Severus shifts from foot to foot, feeling wronged and uncomfortable as Harry glowers:  
“I know that you feel very strongly about me.  You've mentioned it plenty of times already, Harry.  But love doesn't usually last long around me, so it'd be pointless to agree to a commitment as formal as marriage.  I don't like the idea of going around breaking vows I've made with the intention of keeping.  That's why I'd prefer to avoid making them altogether, if it's all the same to you.”

Harry looks at him so intently that Severus has to make a conscious effort not to fidget.  The Seeker looks half-way between absolutely livid with him and positively heartbroken.  His eyes shine like bright green jewels as he carelessly drops his precious broom to the floor and moves inexorably forwards, walking around the till counter to grab Severus' visibly trembling hands. Enfolding them in a grip that feels both reassuringly warm and devastatingly gentle.  Careful, but oh-so-very-determined.  Earnest beyond endurance.  
“I've loved you for years, my prince.  I've loved you even though I was convinced you were straight.  I've loved you so much and for so long that I can no longer remember how it feels not to do so.  Don't you ever dare to compare me to my mother, Severus, because she never loved you like I do.  She cared for you like a friend cares for another and not a very good friend at that.    
  
"I, on the other hand, am as committed to you as anyone can possibly be.  I will not belong to another man or woman, regardless of whether you end up marrying me or not.  I can't.  I'm already _yours_.  Even if you decide to misinterpret everything else, you must try to understand this: I'm not telling you that I love you to get into your pants.  I don't want only sex and companionship.  I'm not aiming for the safety of good times and good times only.”

“Harry...”

“Listen to me, sweetheart: I want the whole shebang.  I want a house with a lab for you and a mini-field were I can practice flying.  I want to look after you whenever you get sick.  I want to see you smile every time you floo Draco and hear you rant against the latest nonsense from the ministry or the increasingly lowering standards of the words they use in the Prophet's Sunday crossword.  I want to be beside you the next time you visit Dumbledore's grave.  I want to be the man you turn to whenever you need someone to lean on.  I'm not courting you for shits and giggles, Severus.  I'm courting you for real.”

Severus' blood rushes through his veins like an overflowing river, making him feel dizzy with the awareness that Harry is grabbing onto his hand as if the world itself is about to end. His throat becomes as dry as thousand year old parchment when he suddenly realizes that he positively craves the comforting reassurance of the seekers' overly warm touch.

Ever since he had that wet dream about the Gryffindor he's been struggling with his growing awareness of the man as an attractive member of his own sex.  One he finds not only physically pleasing but also happens to desire with a passion that alarms him.  He has never found himself in the awful situation of being so utterly fascinated by anyone outside the alcohol-blurred confines of The Unfettered Queer before and, just as he's begun to come to terms with the idea that he needs to find a way to overcome his bone-deep insecurities and learn to interact with Harry at a less platonic level, the annoying creature goes ahead and drops this new and thoroughly unexpected bomb on him.    
  
_Marriage_... Potter doesn't want any old intimate relationship. No. The savior wants _marriage_ and Severus finds the notion so very bizarre that he can't help but wonder if he's dreaming once again.  If his treacherous mind is conjuring up this scene just like it conjured the last one.  If this is his heart's way of trying to make him understand that he's already treading in far more deeper waters than he realizes. “But this is not a real courtship.”  He hears himself whisper that ridiculous assertion as if through a thick fog and his gut sinks all the way down to his toes as he continues speaking, despite his horrified mind's attempts to tell him to shut up before he digs his grave any deeper. “Our so-called courtship is nothing beyond a mere recognition of our mutual commitment to become better acquainted with one another, isn't it, Harry?”

Callused fingertips settle ever so gently around his own, entangling their hands palm to palm even as that gorgeous green gaze blinks at him with puzzled incomprehension.   
“What do you mean, my prince?”

Severus' heart pounds as he takes a deep breath.  His dark gaze lowers ever so slightly, fixing with blind desperation over their intertwined hands and there is something so utterly right about that sight that he can't help uttering the words his head is trying its very best to keep him from pronouncing, even though he doesn't know exactly what he wants them to mean or feels anywhere near ready to cope with the possible repercussions of letting them escape his mouth.  
“Real courtship is a formal process, Harry.  It requires a public declaration of intent and the equally official acceptance of your suit before you're even allowed to start wooing your chosen.  You witnessed Draco's pursuit of Ginevra first hand, so you're probably aware of the fact that there is more to courtship than just dating.  There must be a social acknowledgment of your intentions, an exchange of meaningful gifts and the necessary acceptance of your future partner by your family and close friends.  True courtship requires a hell of a lot of things we haven't done.  It requires many things we won't even be able to pull off.”

Harry blinks, as if dazed, and the most brilliant smile Severus has ever seen literally explodes over his lovely features.   
“Are you saying you'd be willing to enter a formal courtship with me right now?”

Severus swallows past the huge lump trying to choke him, already mourning the beautiful brightness of Harry's sunny smile as he attempts to clarify his point further.  
“I'm telling you that doing such a thing would be impossible for us, Harry.  I can't imagine the sweet Weasleys officially welcoming a confirmed murderer like me into their family circle, and your every dead ancestor will start rolling in their graves at the mere notion of a match between you and me.  You are the last heir of the ancient and most noble houses of Black and Potter.  You can't possibly indulge in this sort of...”

“Molly will be positively overjoyed to be finally given the chance to stuff you full of food, so don't even go there, Severus.  And all that crap about my being the last acknowledged heir of a pair of old pureblood lines has been discussed to death by everyone and their nephew since it became public knowledge that I'm the kind of homosexual who isn't willing to marry a woman for the purpose of begetting a couple of heirs, so I might as well marry you, since I love you and all that.”

Severus' slender frame starts trembling from the top of his dark head to the tips of his big toes.  He's too flustered by half to even begin to unravel the tangled mess of wild terror, relieved hope and disconcerted elation that he's feeling at this second.  Nobody has ever given him reason to imagine that he'd find himself one day in the position of having to consider an actual proposal of marriage and, although the idea frightens him by the very implausibility of it working out as if should, the truth is that it also promises him the kind of future he gave up on having long ago.  The very same kind of future that he'd often dreamed about when he was as a child.  Harry has just promised him the kind of life that is the exact opposite of his current existence and he doesn't want to lose this opportunity, but he's nowhere near ready to embrace it wholeheartedly yet.

“I wasn't implying that I would—this is way too fast for me, Harry.”

The Gryffindor's smile doesn't dwindle in the slightest, it just softens into something utterly loving.  Something full of so much patient understanding that Severus feels both adored and exposed right down to the marrow.  
“That's alright, my prince.  You don't have to panic about any of that right now.  I'm quite aware that It's too soon to start spouting corny poetry in your ear, so you'll have to wait with batted breath for the pleasure of hearing the sweet sonnets I've composed in your honor.”

“Please tell me that you didn't!” Severus gasps, looking so positively horrified that Harry can't contain the gleeful peal of laughter that escapes his lips.

“Oh, come on. There's no need to look so appalled.  I'm sure I can come up with enough words that rhyme with black to do you justice.”

Severus attempts to snort scornfully, but the slightly hysterical giggle that has been climbing up the back of his throat since the brat first mentioned poetry ends up erupting out of him as soon as Harry starts wriggling his eyebrows.

“My prince's hair is black like the fur of a yak, and every time I pat his hand I forget how to talk.”

“Stop it.  Please, stop it.  I beg of you, Harry.” Severus pleads, laughing openly now at the ridiculous rhyme and all but feels his heart jump right into his throat when the lion before him suddenly leans forwards, raises himself on tiptoes and kisses the laughter right off his lips with the very same tenderness he used in Severus' wet dream.  With the same playful adoration, the same obvious passion and the same need to give -and take- pleasure, love, honest affection.    
  
Never before has he had a single dream of his handed down to him on a silver platter.  Not once in his forty five years of age, and yet here is the most improbable of them all beginning to take breathtaking shape before his very eyes: Love...  Someone has learned to love him not with flimsy words or in a purely platonic way, but with the entirety of their heart.    
  
Someone is daring to desire him in every way a man can be desired.  Someone is willing to behave like a clown, just to make him laugh.  Someone is aching to kiss his smiles right off his mouth and that someone is standing right here, in the middle of his otherwise deserted shop, for no other reason than the fact that he's standing here too. He's finally more than just himself. He's part of a couple.  He's—dare he say it?Yes: he's Harry's boyfriend, and although he's conscious of the fact that the very notion should frighten him more than it does, that it should sound totally ridiculous to his own ears, the truth is that it doesn't.  On the contrary: it sounds safe and sane and... right.

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16.**

 

Severus hears the first Howler crash loudly against the magical barrier that surrounds his shop and smirks to himself.   
_'Idiots, the lot of them. How dare they assume me to be witless enough to neglect the task of setting up proper defenses against an attack that was as predictable as the sunrise after dawn?'_

The latest edition of The Prophet had arrived via owl promptly at six thirty in the morning and it hadn't surprised him in the slightest to see the kind of damaging article that he'd been expecting all along dominating the front page:   
**'Savior Caught In Clandestine Affair With Death Eater Turncoat.'**

The headline had been pretty self-explanatory all by itself and the article that accompanied it had been liberally sprinkled with not so subtle insinuations about _'the certain foul play'_ he must have committed in order to snare the affection of the Wizarding world's _'_ _most_ _dashing and vulnerable hero'_.  Severus hadn't enjoyed the story in particular, but he isn't overly shocked by its content since the tone of it had fallen right along the lines he was most prepared to read.

He's been expecting their 'association' to hit the papers since the first time they went to Rosmerta's together and, although the fact that his decision to cut that date short due to the barkeeper's interference had granted them a few days of grace, someone who'd been present at the bistro they'd visited last night must have sold the story to the press.

Despite his own low expectations, Severus can't help but feel letdown by how easily, how _carelessly,_ they'd been betrayed for what he assumes must have been a pitiful enough amount of Galleons.  A few outings together at public, but small venues where they both are equally known to the regular patrons was all it took for their secret liaison to become front page news. They haven't been going out into Wizarding London for that long. They hadn't even lingered at that particular bistro due to the fact that Severus had been nursing a bad headache all afternoon long and Harry had only managed to get him out at all with the promise of a hearty meal, since the idea of heading home and cooking dinner for himself had made him feel even more miserable than he'd already been.

Someone must have followed them after they left the restaurant, since the picture that accompanies the article shows the moment when Harry cradled his face between those callused hands of his and kissed his aching forehead with the kind of devotion that not even a barely focused grainy picture can possibly deny.

The image is compromising enough to have given the Prophet the perfect excuse to write a ruthlessly clever and inflammatory piece that brims with barely concealed innuendo.  It only suggests that they left the bistro in a hurry due to _'a sudden onset of lustful impatience'_ that could have been caused by the effect of the surreptitiously delivered potion he must have _'certainly dropped on his victim's drink',_ but Severus knows enough of human nature by now to be perfectly aware of the fact that the article's carefully worded suggestions will have far more weight with the masses than all his avowals of innocence put together.

Severus sighs as the loud roar of what must amount to several thwarted Howlers screeching abuse at him from the other side of his carefully constructed shields reaches his ears. Despite his fierce determination to ignore the hurt that is beginning to burn in the pit of his stomach like a cauldron full of poison, he can't avoid feeling numb with the kind of pained sorrow that has been his constant companion since the very second he'd turned his back on the Dark Lord.

This is the people he'd worked so tirelessly to protect. These are the men and women whose lives were never tainted by the cruel violence of the war, thanks to his tireless efforts on their behalf. He never expected their gratitude. Never craved their forgiveness and hasn't allowed their wounding indifference to harm the last vestiges of the pitiful amount of sanity that he's managed to retain after the war.

He made peace with the idea that he'd never achieve greatness in the eyes of the public a long time ago, but had foolishly expected to be granted a modicum level of respect at the very least. He'd been justly prosecuted at a very public trial and the Wizengamot itself had judged his many crimes _'a necessary evil brought forth by the needs of war'_.

He'd been absolved of all wrongdoing. Hailed as a war hero right alongside Harry and his trusty band of rebellious Gryffindor peers and other assorted misfits, but the truth has always been inexplicably easy to forget by the bulk of wizarding society.  Despite his Order of Merlin, first class, and the freedom the court had been unable to deny him, he remains a Death Eater in the eyes of most people.  He is a turncoat.  A callous murderer.  He has become a waste of magic and space in everybody's mind.  He is nothing short of a despicable pariah.

After everything he sacrificed for Albus' thrice cursed 'Greater Good', after almost dying and going through the trauma of enduring an emotionally draining trial, after leaving his home behind in order to simply _survive_ , it is beyond heartbreaking to realize that he is still the same man he's always been in everybody's eyes: he remains shrouded in suspicion.  Forever distrusted and unjustly vilified.  An easy target for the ever-popular, self-righteous bullies who so enjoy preying on the unworthy.

“But I am not unworthy anymore.”  He growls into the silence that surrounds him before taking a single deep breath.  Forcing himself to square his shoulders in wary anticipation of the confrontation that awaits him.

He snuffs out the magical flame under his finished potion with a practiced wave of his wand and abandons his position behind the long worktop that dominates his laboratory.  His movements are both elegant and measured as he walks calmly towards the stairs, hesitating only a second before taking the all-important first step that will eventually deliver him to the small, poky corridor that opens into the seldom used front room of his humble shop.

The sound of his footsteps resonates in the eerie silence like the sharp lash of a whip and he shivers with the knowledge that he's putting himself directly in danger's perilous path once again.  Mobs have always failed to support him and he finds them both cowardly and disruptive. They are dangerous, yes, but they are also pathetically predictable and if there is something he'd learned from James Potter's unrelenting bullying during his school years is that retreat is not an option he can afford to contemplate when confronted with an enraged bully, let alone hundreds of them.

Perceived cowardice on his part now will only allow the righteous bastards who think they are fit enough to judge him to believe themselves justified in their assumptions.  Retreat isn't the only weapon useful in battle and sometimes the only way for a wily old snake to reach temporary safety is to force its enemies into backing away through direct confrontation.

Draco's familiar eagle-shaped Patronus arrives in the shop just as he reaches the till and he smiles at it with the instinctive recognition of a man who was there when this truly regal manifestation of his godchild's magic was first conjured.  Pride... his boy has so much of it that he's managed to imbue his corporeal Patronus with that quality, creating a magnificent silver beast of might and beauty that dazzles the eye as it sweeps regally through the air, circling Severus' form twice before alighting on the counter in order to convey Draco's obviously panicked message.

“The wards to your shop are being attacked, godfather.  I can feel the disruption to their magic at multiple points right now.  There is a mob outside your door and the Howlers that can't make it past your shields are being redirected to the manor as we speak.  I had my lawyers descend on The Prophet's editor office like a pack of hungry wolves, but there is nothing we can do at the moment to minimize the current frenzy except keeping you away from the public eye.

“In an effort to try and calm everybody down Potter is attempting to schedule an interview with Rita Skeeter, but she is playing hard to get.  Please floo home as soon as you can and remain behind locked doors until further notice.  Do.  Not.  Leave.  Your.  House.  For.  Any.  Reason, godfather.  I will be there as soon as I find out how your... boyfriend... is planning to get you out this mess.”

The message comes to an abrupt halt and the magnificent eagle looks at him sternly before disappearing with such a familiar toss of its head that Severus can't contain the small chuckle that makes it past his lips.  
 _'Oh, Draco, Draco, Draco... You know me better than this. You should have been able to predict that I wouldn't follow that particularly unhelpful advice.  I can't do what you ask, even if I want to, which I most definitely don't.  Waiting around in the face of danger only works for those who have no doubt they will be rescued and I have been left to fix my problems alone for long enough to know better than to expect... the cavalry.'_

He ponders the wisdom of replying to Draco via his own Patronus for a second, but decides against such action out of habit.  He's so used to keeping that particular form of magic as a last resort in battle that he can't bear to conjure his delicate doe for anything short of imminent death.  She is too precious to be treated like a messenger, anyway.  She is his shield against Dementors, the most candid representation of his vulnerable inner-self.  She is a part of himself that he would never freely expose to the derision of others under normal circumstances, and there is nothing so truly out of the ordinary about the situation he is currently facing.

A fortifying breath is all the preparation he allows himself to take before casting the Alohomora that unlocks the front door of his shop, leaving it free to swing inwards ever so slowly and bring in the unpleasant jeering that is now increasing in volume due to the fact that the furious mob outside has finally managed to get a glimpse of him.

Their idiotic leader attempts to take a step forwards and is taught the hard way just how perilous it can be for one's health to try messing with an Ex-Death Eater's wards.  The shield he placed outside his shop holds true, despite Draco's assurances that it is being tampered with, and Severus can't suppress the self-satisfied smirk that blooms across his thin lips as he waits with amused complacency for the magic he'd weaved onto the specialized Repelling Charm that he recently added to the shop's wards to unleash its power now that it has been triggered by the presence of a visitor who is so obviously willing to cause him bodily harm.

The moment his moronic would-be attacker attempts to cross past the outer limit of the wards a second time he is zapped by a rather flashy lash of magic that leaves him Stunned right where he stands for all his companions to see.  Their leader's unexpected misfortune manages to bring the loud mob to blessed silence and Severus uses the opportunity to step outside slowly, conscious of the fact that all eyes are now fixed upon him.  Following his every move with a frightened sort of venom as everyone finally arrives at the unavoidable conclusion that he may be alone before them, but he is certainly not defenseless.

He is a far better wizard than any of them will ever be and there is no way for them to guess precisely how his wards are rigged.  They've got no clue of what will set his shields off or where, precisely, they lay.  They only know that their Howlers can not reach his shop and they are equally unable to make it past the outer edge of the sidewalk directly before his front door.  
  
“Do you think you frighten us with your clever little tricks, Death Eater?”

The question raises from the front row of bodies forming a positively disturbing-looking human wall in front of him and he shakes his head from side to side.  Not in answer to that rather uninspired challenge, but in reaction to his own amused thought about how he has never truly managed to teach anything worth learning to anyone on his first try.  
“My name is Severus Snape.  That is _master_ Severus Snape to you, Mr... Smith... wasn't it?  Zacharias Smith, the cowardly Hufflepuff.”

“Don't you dare call me names, you, dirty scum!  I'm a decent wizard who is willing to protect our naïve Savior from whatever Dark Arts you've cast upon him.”

Severus laughs scornfully, delighting in the freeing exhilaration of allowing himself the pleasure of putting the idiot in his place.  He has grown increasingly tired in recent years of the small little looks that most people send his way from the corner of their eyes as he passes them on the streets, and it's simply marvelous to have the opportunity to hear what they've been thinking all along and feel equally certain that restraining his own temper-fueled reaction won't aid his cause any longer.  
  
“I do not practice the Dark Arts, child.  Had you paid proper attention to your professors at Hogwarts you'd be now able to remember that my particular expertise when it comes to that subject lays in _defending_ against them, not in using them for things that can be achieved by legally acceptable means with equally... satisfying... results.”

“We don't believe you.  You are a traitor and a liar.  You're a cold-blooded murderer.  You must have dosed Harry Potter with a Love Potion for him to even look twice at your disgusting face!”

Severus laughs with unfettered disdain, feeling most perversely amused by the thoroughly uninspired accusation.  
“Is that the best you can do, Mr. Smith?  Do you really think I care at all about the fact that you find me ugly?  I have been called far worse in my lifetime, I assure you.”

“Harry Potter is way out of your league, Death Eater, leave him alone or we'll...”

“What?  What, precisely, are you planning to do to the man I love, Zach?”

Severus jumps, just as everyone else does, in shocked reaction to the abrupt appearance of the Boy Who Lived right beside him.  Harry seems to have been able to Apparate straight through his wards without triggering a single one of them.  He is wearing a crumpled Quidditch uniform and is holding his ridiculously expensive monogrammed broom in one hand, and his wand in the other, looking for all intents and purposes like any athlete who has just forgo the refreshing benefits of a shower after a hard training session in order to rush home to his beloved would look like.

Harry's famous green gaze flashes with narrow-eyed disgust upon hearing Zacharias Smith's rushed explanation:  
“Listen to yourself, Harry!  It's obvious to everyone that this scumbag must have poisoned you with one of his concoctions.  You need to come with us.  We'll take good care of you and make sure Snape pays for what he's done.”

Harry bristles at the words.  He drops his broom to the floor as if it were a mere rag and curls his arm protectively in front of Severus' frame, pushing him slightly backwards in order to place himself between the Slytherin and the appalled crowd, like a willing human shield.  
“Who the fuck do you think you are?  How dare you first insult and then threaten a decorated war hero in my supposed defense?   Who on Earth gave any of you the right to meddle in my private life?  Get the hell out of here!”

“No way!”  Smith growls, sending a positively murderous look towards him over Harry's shoulder and Severus stiffens in reaction to both Harry's growing fury and the horrified look that is beginning to grace most faces in shocked response to the seeker's protective stance.

The mob moves forwards a step, almost as if it has become one single, furious entity and Harry squares his athletic shoulders in the kind of confrontational stance that only drives their anger higher.  Then Smith has the brilliant idea of raising his wand towards them while he attempts to plead with Harry one last time:  
“You've got to come with us, Harry.  You can't see what's going on clearly because this son of a bitch has managed to trick you into believing that you love him, but you don't.  You could never love a piece of shit like this, and we're not going to let him get away with whatever he's done to you.”

“I said: GET.  THE.  HELL.  OUT.  OF.  HERE!”  Harry roars, loosing control of his temper to the point were the entire street suddenly feels first unbearably hot and then so frighteningly cold that it seems as if they are being plunged alternatively into a vat of boiling water and then directly into a bucket full of ice.

Sudden horror spreads like wild fire over the stunned crowd and everyone rushes everywhere at once, attempting to run away with uncoordinated gracelessness and ending up trampling one another in their desperate rush to flee from what appears to be a very strong manifestation of uncontrolled magic.

“Harry...”  Severus whispers as soothingly as he can manage, attempting to make himself heard over the increasingly loud screaming coming from the panicked crowd.  “You've got to calm down.  You are frightening these people.”

Harry's shoulder tenses under the steadying hand Severus curls around it, but the messy head that pushes slightly backwards, slotting itself carefully just under his chin does so with relaxed gentleness.  
“Don't worry, my prince.  I've got this under control.  I'm just trying to shake them up a bit.”

Severus frowns upon hearing that whispered explanation, only now realizing that those words have been meant for his ears alone and that Harry has not only managed to cast a wandless Muffliatto around them, but is also reacting to a supposedly accidental bout of temper-fueled magic with inexplicable composure.

Looking out towards the rapidly emptying street Severus realizes that no one has shown up yet to manage the panicked crowd.  The aurors have failed to make an appearance and there are no teams of Unspeakables attempting to control the dwindling mayhem.  It feels almost as if all relevant authorities have inexplicably failed to detect a potentially dangerous situation.

“You've done this on purpose?  You paid someone to tip off the Prophet and... staged... this ghastly scene?  You made me go through all of this just to warn people off?  What the hell is wrong with you, Potter?  You've played with them, with me.  You've scared the shit out of everyone!”

“Severus...”

Harry turns hastily around and tries to grab him by the arm, but he's simply faster than the brat.  He turns on his heel with a scowl that drips disgust and enters his shop in a thoroughly irritated huff.  He'd have banged the front door closed on the little bastard's face if the seeker hadn't been practically glued to his heels.

“You've got to listen to me, sweetheart.”

“You just played me like a goddamned violin, Potter.  You've turned a perfectly pleasant morning into one of my worst nightmares, just to make your bloody point.  I'm done with being the clueless puppet of every powerful wizard I come across.  I may have been Albus' disposable pawn, but I most certainly don't want to become _yours_.”

“Severus, please...”

“I won't let you use me like that.  I just—I can't.”  His voice cracks at that point with the most shameful fragility and he can't keep on talking.  He can't keep on looking at the contrite expression that is darkening Harry's lovely gaze, either.  He can't stand the thought that he's been used like this again by someone he'd been learning to trust.

“I didn't play you.  I swear I did not put you through any of this on purpose, Severus.  I didn't betray your trust in any way, and I resent your accusation that I've lowered myself to tip off The Prophet about us.  I admit that I've been planing my reaction to this sort of situation for a while, but I neither staged that awful article nor Zach's disgusting speech.  I didn't conjure that furious mob out of thin air, my Prince.  It decided to came to your doorstep all by itself.  The only thing I really did was react.”

Severus has always been able to tell when the brat is lying to him.  Harry's Occlumency skills are simply abysmal and he never fails to wear his irritating natural rebelliousness plastered all over his expression, like a proudly displayed banner.  This time, though, there is no rebelliousness of any kind flashing in the depths of Harry's wide-eyed gaze.  He looks terrified and frantic, as sincere as any man could be.

“But you just told me that you wanted to scare them.  That display out there wasn't accidental at all.  You were obviously in control of your magic, Harry.  You cast whatever the hell that was on purpose.”

“Yes, I did.  But I didn't do it to try to manipulate anyone, least of all you, my love.  I am a very powerful wizard, Severus, and my magic is unfortunately tied to my emotions.  Only Merlin knows what I could have cast if I had lost control for real.  I could have caused serious damage if I hadn't been preparing myself to deal with this kind of situation over the last few weeks.”

“But neither the Aurors nor the Unespeakables showed up. That was a potential disaster in the making.  I can't believe they'd disregard that sort of mob-like behavior just because it was centered around my shop and, even if they are that unprofessional, they should have begun to Apparate here en-masse as soon as your magical signature showed up in their scans.”

Harry smiles self-deprecatingly and dares to approach him one slow step at a time, until he is finally able to curl a slightly shaking arm around his waist in a move that seems to be geared more towards anchoring himself than to trap Severus in an embrace.  
“What can I say?  I've got friends in high places.  Ron is the head of the Auror department and Hermione pretty much runs the Unespeakables, even though she is only supposed to be the director of their research team.  Having a close personal relationship with the Minister of Magic hasn't hurt me, either.”

“Are you implying that they overlooked this situation on purpose?  How could they have done such a thing?  You just told me you didn't plan any of it.”

“I didn't.  I swear.  But I've put a lot of effort into trying to predict what could happen once our relationship became public.  I'm pants at planning, Severus, you know that.  I can follow other people's directions well enough and put the necessary power behind a spell but, other than that, I'm pretty useless in a battle-like situation.

"I've always been more soldier than general, but I wasn't going to hide behind that excuse and risk you getting hurt by my crazy fans, so I went to my friends.  The hex I cast was Hermione's handiwork and Ron came up with the sorts of reactions I should portray, depending on which one of the multiple scenarios we envisioned played out in the end. They've been helping me train to deal with all sorts of mock situations so that, when the time finally arrived, I'd be able to react in the most advantageous way to benefit _us_.”

Severus blinked.  Impressed, despite himself, by the trio's thoughtful plotting.  
“That's almost Slytherin of you.”

For some reason the comment makes Harry laugh softly under his breath and those gorgeous emerald eyes look right into his own with the kind of pleading look that he doubts even the Dark Lord would have managed to resist.

“You are not mad at me anymore, are you?  I understand why you were so upset, but... I'm not Albus Dumbledore, Severus.  I'd have told you what I was planning, if you'd done what I expected you to do and remained inside the shop.”

Severus fidgets uncomfortably.  
“I've never been one for hiding, Harry.  I—Draco asked me to head back home and stay out of the way, but that's just not something I'm used to doing.  I've never had anyone coming to my rescue before and I honestly wasn't expecting you to show up, so I tried to deal with the situation by myself.”

Harry shakes his dark head from left to right and sighs despairingly, bringing his other arm to join the limb that he's already curled around Severus' slender waist, embracing his love loosely.  
“You are way too brave for your own good, my Prince.  I keep trying to predict what you'd do by reminding myself that you are a Slytherin and always end up miscalculating your actions because I keep forgetting that you can't be classed as one.

“I think Dumbledore was right: you were miss-sorted into your house, Severus.  When Draco Floo-called the stadium and mentioned that he'd asked you to head back home, I called him an idiot.  I told him that you had probably stayed here out of stubbornness, but I never imagined you were reckless enough to confront a mob alone.  I think my heart stopped altogether when Draco suddenly turned deathly pale and told me he'd just felt the front door of the shop open from the inside.”

“I'm surprised he didn't come with you, then.”

“Oh, he wanted to, but I tasked him with alerting Ron and Hermione of what was happening, in case things got really ugly.  They would have shown up here in a flash if we'd needed them.  Your decision to confront our detractors forced me into putting our plan in motion before I had the time to explain everything to you, but I think it succeeded, despite the rush.

“Ron believes that a small and slightly frightening reminder of how magically unpredictable I can be when someone riles me up will make most people think twice before trying to attack you when you are alone, and the rest... Only time will convince everyone of our commitment to one another.  But I'd be more willing to be patient with the public's general idiocy if I can be reasonably certain that no one will try to harm you while they come to terms with our relationship.”

Severus huffed, more than a little bit miffed by the fact that the fucking Golden Trio and the Minister of Magic, himself, had conspired to protect him as if he were some sort of fragile little maiden.  
“I don't need anyone to charge to my rescue like a bloody knight in shining armor.  I am a master of the Dark Arts.  I was a Death Eater for twenty miserably long years.  I survived the viciousness of the Dark Lord's inner circle without anybody's help.  I'm not some ridiculously useless little princess in need of saving, Potter.“

A soft kiss lands right above the stiff collar of his robe like a delicate apology and Severus feels the unexpected sweetness of that devoted contact burn him clear to the bone.  
“I know you can defend yourself, my clever, courageous Prince.  But I want—No.  I _need_ to protect you, too.  You are not alone any more.  You are a part of me now.  You've become a part of my family, whether you like it or not.  You are an honorary Weasley now and the fourth member of the Golden Trio. This is what being half of a couple feels like, Severus, and I'm not going to apologize for my need to come to your aid.

“I will come to your rescue every time I think you're in danger, even though I realize that you probably don't need me to do so.  I will come not because I believe you to be incapable of dealing with whoever tries to harm you, but because _I_ need to be here, fighting off those who threaten you too.  I will come because whoever tries to harm you will end up harming me.  You are not alone anymore, sweetheart.  You are my partner now, and I'd be damned to hell and back before I let you face our enemies all by yourself, my love.”

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17.**

 

Severus has never been at the center of a public scandal before and he can't say he's enjoying it in the slightest.  He's used to being silently despised for his role in the war and his harsh temperament as a professor, but the merciless scorn he's so familiar with has as little in common with the vicious loathing that his romantic relationship with Harry Potter seems to have unleashed against his person as a miffed glare has to the Cruciatus Curse.

He's no longer an invisible shadow.  He has become something else entirely almost overnight, transforming against his will from openly despised pariah into the despicable insect everyone wants to analyze under a Magnifying Spell with the intention of first identifying and then gleefully ridiculing each and every one of its appalling little flaws.

Nowadays he can't go anywhere without being most rudely stared at.  He's finding himself on the receiving end of more obnoxious post than he can possibly deal with, and is currently tapping into his admittedly meager reserves of patience in order to avoid hexing every single insufferable old matron who dares to shake an outraged fingertip at him while informing him that one of these days he'll get his comeuppance for the atrocious acts he's supposedly committing against all common decency.

His humble shop has ceased to be the former oasis of peacefulness where he could tinker safely with his potions at any time of day or night.  He is now absolutely unable to concentrate on work during the day, due to the fact that there is always some intrusive bastard or other coming inside the premises to ask him inane questions under the guise of having 'mistaken' his place of business for an actual Apothecary.

It's not helping at all that because there are so many people congregating just outside his front doors for no reason whatsoever Ronald Weasley has been forced to deploy an Auror guard to the shop, which is being interpreted by most people as a cowardly act on his part.

Severus can no longer walk through Diagon Alley without having to go through a literal wall of staring, scowling humanity.  He can no longer go anywhere near his own blasted window without having a hundred camera flashes going off in his startled face.  He can't sit at his regular outdoor table in his favorite cafe without having the experience turn into the most excruciating exercise in awkwardness that he's ever experienced.  All in all his life is beginning to spiral out of his control so fast that he barely recognizes it anymore and the stress of it all is slowly, but certainly, messing with his head.

Taking a deep breath he forces himself to push those unpleasant thoughts to the back of his mind and look down towards the small row of separate chopping boards that are filled to the brim with the still unused ingredients that he's been preparing all morning with almost obsessive attention to detail.

Despite the fact that he's been 'cautioned' against remaining inside the premises after dark, following a series of unfortunate confrontations between himself and a couple of young hooligans who'd mistakenly assumed that all they had to do was wait for the aurors outside the door to head home in order to have 'a proper go' at him, the truth is that he can't concentrate properly on work during usual business hours.  There is just too much disruption going on both inside and around the shop for him to feel comfortable with the idea of 'letting go' of his surroundings for long enough to concentrate on his precious potions.

He desperately needs the respite that brewing usually brings him, but the aurors' concerned warnings have been weighing in his mind, curtailing his desire to stay behind after closing hours and work out his frustrations through cauldron after cauldron of gently simmering concoctions to the point that his inability to brew has started to distress him so much that he feels alien in his own skin.  He feels jittery, irritated and so utterly lost that he's starting to fear what will happen when his formidable control finally snaps.  Because it will definitely snap if things keep going the way they are for much longer.  He is absolutely certain of that much.

His potions are more than his livelihood.  They are not just the all-consuming passion that he's been wholeheartedly embracing since he was eleven years old.  They are his coping mechanism.  His safe haven.  The one thing that no one else has ever been able to take away from him, no matter how hard they've tried it.  His ability to brew is as necessary to him as breathing or sleeping.  It defines him.  It grounds him to reality and soothes him when he's tired or afraid or maddened with anger.  It's as vital to his sanity as eating is to other people and he's beginning to feel as if his mind is slowly unraveling with every passing second that he fails to lose himself in the delicate rhythm of his beloved art.

“ Severus?   Are yo u all right?   You look troubled. ”  Harry's worried voice  reaches him as if through a thick veil of fog and he lifts dull dark eyes to  frown at him.

“What are you doing here?”

“I tried calling your Floo, but you didn't answer, s o I thought I'll swing by and  make sure you were OK .  The aurors left an hour ago and I was worried.”

Severus' fingertips twitch against the side of the closest chopping board and he presses them hard on the table, trying to hide the small, unconscious tell that betrays his rising anxiety.  
“I'm perfectly well, as you can see.”

Harry stares at him intently, frowning with obvious puzzlement as his eyes take in the precise rows of untouched ingredients and the unlit queue of perfectly balanced cauldrons lined up along the worktop before him.   
“What's wrong?  You're all set to start brewing, but there's nothing on the fire.  Haven't you been working all day long?  Ron is always telling me how much his aurors love you.  Apparently you're the best man they've protected in years because you hardly ever leave the lab.”

Severus' throat dries uncomfortably as Harry's thoughtful eyes rake the clearly unused worktop to his right before zeroing on the small mountain of empty bottles awaiting to be re-filled with their corresponding potions that litter the high table in the corner.   A fleeting look of disconcerted curiosity flashes across the seeker's visage before the heavy mask of dawning realization finally falls over Harry's lovely features.   
“You are not working.  You're—You can't work, can you?”

“Harry...”

“OMG!  All those bastards keep coming to your door.  They stand right outside and shout abuse at you all day long because they've got nothing better to do, and you— _you_ can't ignore them, can you?  You are so used to reacting to danger on the spot that you just can't let go.  You don't trust the aurors enough to put your safety in their hands and I... I've been a blind idiot all along.  I thought you'll see them as a nuisance, but they are far worse than that.  They're destroying the peacefulness of your safe harbor and you don't feel safe enough to brew.”

The uncanny accuracy of Harry's assessment of the situation is making the hair on the back of Severus' neck stand on end and he shivers in unconscious reaction to his increasing discomfort.  He is not used to feeling this exposed, to having his every thought and emotion so very easily understood by anyone.  He's been alone for far too long, has been burying his every vulnerability among shadows for so many decades now that the very realization that he can't hide them from Harry hits him like a hard punch to the stomach and he clams up instinctively.  
“I don't want to talk about this.”  He grits out, looking down towards the worktop to stare blindly at his row of precious ingredients and trying to figure out how many of them will lose their optimum potency after being put under a preservation spell now that they've finally been properly prepared.

“Well, you'll have to.  I'm sorry for pushing you like this, sweetheart, but I can't let you brush something this huge under the carpet.  This is your livelihood we're talking about, Severus.  How long has it been since you stopped brewing at your usual breakneck speed?”

Severus shifts from foot to foot, feeling utterly uncomfortable.  His long fingers twitch against the table once again and he brings his arms upwards with exasperation, crossing them defensively across his scrawny chest before directing his darkest glare at Harry.   
“There is no need to get melodramatic about this.  Our relationship won't remain front-page news forever and all the morons who keep coming to chant nonsense at my door will eventually get bored of their little games and leave.  It's just a matter of time, Harry.  I can put up with your fans' ridiculous antics until something else catches their interest, I assure you.”

Harry's frown grows deeper instead of vanishing into thin air and those beautiful green eyes darken with a thousand unhappy thoughts that Severus can't decipher, but deeply regrets having caused.    
“Don't lie to me, please.  You're forgetting that I've seen you brew before, Severus.  I've heard you talk with Draco about your research for years.  I've seen the expression you get on your face when the two of you start talking shop and it shows nothing short of passion.  You feel about potions the same way I feel about flying and I know for sure that I'd be climbing up the wall by now if I hadn't been allowed to get onto my broom for days on end.”

“I am not you, Harry.”

The Gryffindor look s at him pleadingly,  shifting anxiously from left to right  before  taking a deep breath and  crossing the small distance  that  separat es them  until he's hunched slightly forwards on the other side of the  lab's waist-high worktop.   Clearly trembling fingertips brush over the crushed remains of a  D oxy's wing as their owner looks down into the  shallow glass  bowl that contains  them with obvious dejection.   
“ Look at all this work.  Everything is going to waste before your very eyes, isn't it?  Doxy wings decay in a matter of days and aren't these Blueclawed Lizard 's scales supposed to be used fresh?  How much money have you been losing on ingredients alone, Severus?  How many orders have you fallen behind  with  already?  Don't  brush me off again , please.   I don't think I could take it.”

“Harry, I...”  Severus trie s to speak but his usually sharp  mind fe e l s  i nexplicabl y sluggish.  He' s been coming up with one excuse after another to get people off his case for decades now, yet Harry's pleading gaze tangl es his tongue into knots, forcing him to swallow the small white lie that his heart  i s set on uttering.

“Don't.   Please, just — Don't _ .  _ Trying to d eny what's so obvious to see  won't stop me from feeling guilty about putting you through this .”

“ None of it is your fault.   T here is nothing you can do to make it stop,  either .”

“ Of course it is my fault.  Nobody was bothering you here  despite how harshly the general public  tends to judge your actions during the war.   You may have been unfairly disliked across the board, but there were no furious mobs screaming abuse outside your shop every day of the week  before our news came out.”

“ I'm sure it will stop soon.”   The Slytherin  whispers firmly,  doing his very best to ignore the growing tightness inside his chest that keeps trying to force him to admit to the terror that  has already begun to claw right through his composure.   _ 'Trust him.  Just trust him.  This man is in love with you.   _ _ You know h _ _ e's not going to let you down, Severus.  He's not going to think you weak just because you feel the need to rest your head on his shoulder and just...  _ _ let yourself  _ _ be.' _

He can't tell exactly how Harry manages to see past the blankness of his usually effective mask, but the truth is that he does and so it is that, instead of listening to the words Severus has forced himself to say, the Gryffindor looks right at him, shakes his messy dark hair from side to side and lets out a slightly resigned chuckle before whispering with utter gentleness:  
“Come here, you, stubborn bastard.  I'm going to ignore your reluctance to admit that you desperately need a hug right now and give you one anyway.”

Severus jerks slightly backwards, shocked to the core by the unpleasant surprise of finding himself so easily understood by this small slip of a man who should, by rights, have never  been able to guess how unsettled he feels every time he's confronted with the public's outraged reaction to the news of their relationship.   
“I'm no fragile  little flower  on  the verge of a  mental breakdown , I assure you.”   Severus grits out, straightening to the full intimidating length of his considerable height and becoming stiff from head to foot in the blink of an eye.

Harry doesn't even have the decency to falter in the face of Severus' unequivocal rejection of the comfort he's moving to deliver and simply breaches the small distance that the Slytherin's own insecurities have forced him to create between them with three self assured steps, palming the potioneer's rigid shoulders with delicately curling fingertips that dig into the meager muscle protecting the joint to shake him ever so slightly in a bid to emphasize the words he utters next:  
“Stop that this instant, my Prince.  You're exhausted, overwhelmed and have been entirely too successful in hiding how bad things have been getting around here for my liking. You need to get it into that thick skull of yours that you're not alone anymore, Severus.  You have me now and I am right here.  I'm ready to catch you, OK?I won't do it because I think you are unable to get past this without me, or because I consider you weaker than me in any way.  I'll do it because I can.  I've always wanted to be the shoulder you lean on and, now that you've given me permission to embrace the role of your partner, I can't see any reason to refrain myself from doing just that.  I need to hug you just as much as you need to be hugged, I swear.So just let it happen, sweetheart,please.” 

I n the end that softly voiced 'please' proves to be the one weapon Severus can 't withstand.  His knees grow weak as soon as he hears it and his breath hitches in a small gasp that sounds as loud as a bludger crash in the otherwise silent room.  The tips of Harry's ratty trainers brush against the blunt edges of his own perfectly polished boots only a second before  the lion's determined hands  decide to migrate towards the small of his back,  settling gently just above his tailbone and  pushing hi s hips slowly  forwards until they brush against his companion's.

The idea of resisting for the sake of resisting crosses Severus' mind for an instant, but he dismisses it as soon as his own scrawny torso makes contact with the reassuring strength of Harry's own.  He needs this one hug more than he's ever needed any other and his partner is offering it to him willingly.   Harry is  giving  this comfort to him freely and with no strings attached.  He'd have to be  a lot more cowardly than he is to keep holding onto a false pride that would end up depriving him of the sweet warmth  his earnest lion is trying to gift him . 

Resistance is futile and he knows it, so he might as well give up and simply allow himself to rest within  the caring arms that surround him .  It is exactly what he wants to do anyway and there is nobody here but them.  There is no one to put on a formal front for.  No one to try to impress.  No one to judge hi s willingness to accept the  generously offered solace that he so thoroughly  craves  and so he allows his painfully rigid spine to unbend one tense knot at a time, curling forwards in a painfully slow motion that reminds him for some reason of an ancient fortress crumbling hopelessly towards the ground after having successfully fought against gravity's relentless force for eons.

“That's it, sweetheart, that's it.”  Harry whispers softly in his ear, using a steady hand to rub soothingly all along the protruding ridges of his bony back in a motion obviously designed to keep him calm and help plaster his slightly shaking body even more closely against that Quidditch-toned chest.

“Harry...”

“Shush, my prince.  Take it.  Just... take it, OK?  You have no reason to feel hesitant or ashamed.  I love you and I'm right here.  There is nothing wrong with accepting comfort when you so clearly need it, Severus.”

“But I don't...”

“Yes, you do.  You need me right now.  You need me to hold you just like this for a few minutes and then help you light the fire under each and every one of these empty cauldrons of yours.  You need me to sit in that high-backed chair that you've placed by the window and stay out of your way even as I remain here to make sure you feel safe enough to lose yourself in your brewing.  Nothing and no one is going to disturb you.  Nobody will be allowed to harm you while you work, my love.  No witch or wizard is going to be given the chance to keep you from practicing the art that you've grown so devoted to.  That much I can definitely promise you.”

Severus draws slightly away upon hearing those solemn words and stares right into his companion's green eyes with uncomprehending wonder.  
“But you don't even like potions, Harry.  Wouldn't you prefer it if I called off my brewing for the rest of the evening, so that we can do something you'd enjoy more?”

“ I'm not the one who's been steadily deprived of his coping mechanism over the last few weeks, Severus.  It's obvious that you're stressed and I hate seeing you like this.  I'm not here to be entertained, my love, I'm here to be whatever you need me to be at any given moment.  You need to lose yourself in your brewing and I'll be happy to look over you while you do that.  Relationships are not only about good times and fun.  They are also about compromise and sacrifice and the honest  wish to support  one another , no matter how much or how little it costs. 

“I won't love you only when the rest of the world smiles down on us, my Prince.  I will love you while everyone else disparages you, too.  I will love you when you soar among the clouds and also when you hit rock bottom because loving you any other way is simply unacceptable.  So don't worry so much about whether I'll enjoy the next few hours or not and take what I'm so willing to give you, sweetheart.  I'm prepared to stand guard over you while you brew to your heart's content and rant under your breath about stuff I have no hope of ever understanding.  I will do it because this is what you need the most right now and that is reason enough for me to stay put, and enjoy the pleasure of being given the chance to see you  finally  relax.”

Severus doesn't know what to say and isn't altogether certain that he could utter a single word right this second, even if he knew precisely how to convey the myriad of emotions that crowd his reeling mind.  He closes his dark eyes briefly and attempts to swallow the thick knot that is steadily growing in the back of his suddenly parched throat before daring to exhale Harry's given name in a soft sigh that literally vibrates with the sheer strength of his hopelessly tangled emotions.  He is trying his very best to preserve his precious dignity, but he is currently so unequal to the task that he is failing abysmally to keep his usual mask in place.

He stands there trembling like a leaf with his eyes firmly closed and his heart pounding so fiercely against the walls of his narrow rib-cage that he feels dizzy with anxiety-induced nausea.  Harry is systematically attacking his every defensive barrier with such decisive accuracy that he's finding himself thoroughly defeated before he's lifted a single finger to protect himself from danger.  The bold lion isn't happy with offering and receiving verbal tokens of affection.  No.  He's adding unmistakable actions into the mix and that is something that so very few people have ever done when it comes to him that Severus finds himself both unable and unwilling to keep on trying to resist the sweet temptation before him.

Harry is carrying through with his every promise, never waiting for tomorrow to deliver them or implying that they'll be realized at some point in a future that will never come to pass.  No.  The Gryffindor is putting his heart on the line right now, in this very second, just like he's been doing since the morning he'd woken up, hungover and as bare as the day he was born, tangled in Harry's bed sheets.  The man has constantly refused to offer him vague reassurances or pretty little promises from the very beginning, trying hard to fulfill his every voiced vow on the spot, and that is such a novel experience for Severus that his often betrayed heart doesn't know what to do with it.  Doesn't know how to cope with it.  Doesn't know how it will survive if he manages to mess up this glorious thing they're building together and ends up alone once again.

“Harry, I—thank you.”  He finally whispers, opening clearly terrified dark eyes to stare directly into a deep sea of bright emerald devotion that turns softer, brighter and even more loving, if that is humanly possible, the longer it looks back at him.

“Never thank me for loving you, my Prince.  I don't do it for a purpose, Severus.  I do it because I can't help myself.  I do it because I need to do it, because I can't remember what my heart felt like before it was stuffed full of you.  I do it because you are everything to me and that, right there, makes my need to be here with you nothing but selfish greed, my love.”

Severus' thin lips twitch upwards very slightly as he tries his best to fight against the natural shyness that has always hindered his attempts to get past the slightly superficial closeness that characterizes most of his personal relationships.  
“I'm sure you, Gryffindors, will balk at the very idea, but the truth is that love is nothing but selfish greed, Harry.  Greed directed towards another and carried out mostly on that person's behalf, I'll give you that much, but it is still greed nevertheless.”

Harry laughs openly then, eyes sparkling with a joy that's both breathtakingly simple and impossibly complicated at the very same time.   
“Then I love you more than anyone has ever loved you, Severus Snape, because I'm definitely greedy when it comes to you. I'm positively avaricious and possessive and plain bonkers.  It's so bad that I'm willing to breathe potion fumes all afternoon long just for you, gorgeous.”

Severus blushes to the tips of his ears and then shakes his dark head from left to right.  
“If that's your best attempt to get something out of me for your 'noble sacrifice' I must tell you that your technique leaves a lot to be desired.”

A bright and cheeky smile takes over Harry's lively features and he pushes himself up on his tiptoes to breathe teasingly against Severus' thin lips.  
“I'm willing to learn if you have the patience to teach me, sweetheart.”

Something breaks inside Severus at that second.  Something dark, slightly vicious and wounded beyond belief.  Something that has been trying so very hard to keep his every reaction to this man's sweet avowals of love in check for so long that he literally feels lighter when he finally lets go of it and just bends his long neck forwards to plant a small but heartfelt kiss upon the Gryffindor's smiling lips.  The contact is brief, but almost painfully passionate and when it finally breaks they stare at one another with equally startled expressions of shocked surprise.

“That felt awfully close to greed, Severus.”  Harry whispers into the silence with a tone of voice that is so very full of crystal clear hope that the potioneer can't hold back the need to draw that short body closer and hug his lion tightly against his pounding heart with the kind of newborn confidence that brings tears of sheer relief to those beautiful green eyes.

“It felt so much like greed because it was greed, Harry.  I've never felt so selfish in my life.  I've never felt so free.  I've never been so in tune with another human being.  Never felt so safe to be myself and let everything else hang.  I've never felt less inclined to pick up my tattered mask and hide behind it once again.  You've managed to break through most of my barriers and I—I want this, Harry.  I want _you_ fiercely enough to risk everything I am on it, on _us_.  I feel safe and cared for and... happy.  I feel _whole_ for the very first time in my life and it is all because of you, Harry Potter.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18.**

  

Harry shifts uncomfortably in his chair for the third time in the last five minutes, trying hard to keep a tight lid on his increasing frustration with the people surrounding them.  He is a regular of this particular restaurant and therefore knows it to be a busy, but charming, place that tends to attract customers who are more interested in the quality of their food than a posh, overly pompous atmosphere.

Every single time he'd come here with his friends before they'd enjoyed their dinner while a pleasantly unobtrusive background of relaxed conversation and discreet laughter lulled them into believing they could behave just like any other group of friends would have.  They've never felt like “The Golden Trio” here before.  They have always been treated just like any other set of regular customers would have been, but none of that is in evidence tonight and the absence of that relaxed atmosphere has already begun to affect the mood of his group, turning his friend's first ever dinner out with them as a couple into an absolute disaster.

Harry has chosen this place because he's used to it.  He dines here often, is well known to everyone who frequents it and has never had any issues with either the management or the other patrons.  He'd been counting on that familiarity to curve whatever reactions Severus' presence among them was bound to cause and now, seating stiffly at their usual table while a silence so thick that he's certain he could hear a mosquito bat its wings -if one were to fly swiftly by- he has no other option but to admit to himself just how badly he'd miscalculated the effect of the other patrons' curiosity about his relationship with the former spy when they finally saw them together.

The constant barrage of little looks and bad press that they have continued to gather despite his best efforts to curve them is starting to get under his skin something fierce.  Things tend to be particularly bad whenever someone dares to criticize Severus directly in his hearing or he forces himself to read whatever new atrocity the Prophet has dared to insinuate against his beloved.    
  
Severus himself hasn't said a single word on the matter since the afternoon Harry realized the man couldn't brew in his own bloody lab and, although, that has been swiftly solved by his own insistence on spending every evening thereafter holed up in the man's potion lab in order to give him the chance to work on his precious potions, Harry fears that the unrelenting pressure they are both currently under will prove itself to be stronger than their combined will one of these days.

He's started to have nightmares in which his Prince tells him in no uncertain terms that he's finally realized he's got absolutely no need to put up with the awful media circus that surrounds him, and has decided to walk away from such troublesome relationship. Informing him that he'll go as far as to attempt to find himself some other lover in the future, someone who'll be hopefully as equally willing to adore him as Harry himself has proven to be but who'll also be more pleasantly low-key. Someone less famous and unnecessarily adored by a wild bunch of crazy, stalkerish fans. Someone less stressful, more wholesome.  Someone who can give him the welcome peace of his former anonymity back.

_'I need peace and quiet, Harry.  I Need_ _space.  Respect.  Dignity. I've come to the conclusion that I'll never find any of those things with you.  The press will not leave me alone and your crazy fans despise me.  They will never let us be, and I_ _—I've just realized that I deserve better than this. I hope you understand...' _ The imagined scene sickens him so much that he groans out loud as he sits oh-so-stiffly at the cheerfully decorated little table that is in no way private enough to grant his group a respite from the constant, intrusive staring they are currently being subjected to.   
  
Severus turns towards him and gives him a curious little look even thought he's also obviously attempting to ignore the blatantly rude stares that follow his every motion like a mirroring spell.  Harry grits his teeth and meets the Slytherin's dark eyes head on, deeply resenting the harsh judgment that every bloody bastard and their uncle feels unfairly entitled to pass onto his precious beloved, even though the potioneer has done absolutely nothing to deserve their despicable treatment of him since the war ended, and has been not only put on trial for his role as a Death Eater but also acquitted on the grounds that he'd been a spy for the light all along.  


“Are you alright, Harry?  You look pale.”  Severus' worried question brings him out of his frustrated thoughts in a rush of distraught contrition and he smiles ruefully at the darkly attired figure seating rigidly beside him.

“Yes. I'm fine, Severus.  I just spaced out for a second or two.  I hope I didn't miss anything too important while I was busy daydreaming.”  He offers quietly in reply, plastering a small smile on his lips that must have fallen pretty short of his usual fare because it only manages to make the potioneer frown harder.

“That must have been a pretty terrible daydream.  You looked positively miserable.”  Pale, elegant fingers abandon the salad fork they've been holding in order to tip his face upwards with a gentle push under his chin, forcing him to look directly into Severus' clearly anxious gaze.  “What's the matter, Harry?  Is the food not to your taste?  I thought you said you like this particular establishment.”

Harry freezes on the receiving end of Severus' seemingly spontaneous gesture, willing his shocked mind not to do or say anything that could cut this incredible moment short before it has the time to come to its own conclusion, whatever that may be.  It is so rare for the Slytherin to show this sort of open concern towards him in public -or even in private for that matter- that Harry has no hope in hell of containing the wild rush of sheer affection that is welling up inside him like the most ferocious tidal wave, flooding every single cell he possesses with the kind glowing joy that he can neither cage properly nor suppress in any way, least of all in the presence of the creature who has so easily caused it.

“The food here has always been excellent, my Prince, but it's the company I'm keeping that makes tonight so special.”  Harry whispers that heartfelt sentence for Severus' ears alone and feels more than merely happy when he becomes the entire focus of the most beautiful black gaze he's ever seen.  The restaurant simply vanishes from his consciousness until all: food, table, lifelong friends and even the room crammed to the rafters with irritatingly rude strangers becomes nothing but easily ignored white noise, buzzing on the periphery of his senses.    
  
All he cares about is right in front of him, peering down into his eyes with midnight-colored intensity, touching the underside of his jaw with oh-so-careful fingertips and making his besotted heart pound a mile a minute by doing absolutely nothing besides seating here, next to him, defying everyone's expectations and keeping his head high through every baleful stare and disgruntled whisper. Through every unforgivably rude remark born of biased disapproval. Through every second that his beautiful, courageous Prince is being forced to spend in the kind of hell that he most certainly doesn't deserve.

“I love you, Severus Snape.”  Harry says out loud, bowing down to his urgent need to fill this second with the weight of the one truth he can't bear to deny for anyone's sake.  The words pierce the heavy silence like the lash of a whip pierces human flesh and although he's unaware of it right at that second the fact is that he's whispered them with a tone that made it perfectly clear they had come right from the heart.   
  
Severus shocks everyone present when he doesn't flinch back, when he doesn't reject such candidly expressed sentiment as forcefully as the entire restaurant expects him to. He does nothing but remain right where he is, appearing for all the world to have been rendered physically unable to look away from Harry. Finally he blinks ever so slowly, as if waking from a strange, mind-numbing hex and exhales a long, shuddering sigh before granting the young Savior one of his rare and shy smiles, answering him with a gentleness that leaves everyone present literally breathless:  
“I know that you do, Harry, but that is no reason to ignore both your meal and your friends in favor of daydreaming.  Mrs. Granger here has been trying to engage you in conversation for the best part of five minutes, nyingdu-la.”   
  
Severus' answer is so quiet that no one would have been able to hear it under normal circumstances. But these are not normal circumstances in the slightest.  This is the first official 'date' of the most in-famous couple in the entire wizarding world at this point in time, and so it is that as soon as the potioneer's dark and gravelly voice stops speaking there is a sudden explosion of murmurs as everyone around them attempts to find out precisely what the despised Slytherin pariah has just called their Savior in front of so many witnesses.

Harry chuckles in amusement, knowing in his heart of hearts that whatever language that was, the words themselves must have been a term of endearment and, although he wonders what they mean to Severus and why, exactly, he's decided to bestow them upon him at this particular moment, the one thing he can't ignore right now is that his dark haired Prince has gifted them to him.  He's been most unequivocally acknowledged in public.  He's been singled out and treated as a beloved companion by a man who is fiercely private when he had absolutely no reason to do any such a thing. Harry feels as light as air and as buoyant as a brightly colored kite firmly tethered to the hands of the elegant creature who owns his heart, and so he presses his jaw lovingly against the capable long fingers that are still holding his jaw, desperate to feel the delicate touch of Severus' pale skin upon his own for a single second longer.

“Harry...”  Ron and Hermione shift on the opposite side of the table, clearly at a loss as to what to say or how to react to the strange situation.  Despite his friends' unwavering support of their relationship the truth is that neither of them have ever seen Severus and him together since they became a couple, and therefore must be as shocked as everyone else in the restaurant seems to be with regards to how close they've grown to each other in so short a time.

Harry watches Ron's wide-eyed stare follow Severus' fingertips as they pull away from his face and lower towards the table, curling once again around the abandoned salad fork they'd discarded when the man first tried to get his attention.  There is a dazzled sort of wonder flashing across the surface of his best friend's bright blue eyes, and Harry can't help the sheer sense of relief that bubbles up the back of his throat and escapes him in the shape of a peal of delighted laughter as he looks from Ron's flustered face to Hermione's pleased one before sweeping the room from left to right, staring defiantly at the stunned sea of strangers that fill the restaurant and silently daring them all to call him an idiot for being in love with the most amazing human being he's ever encountered.

His eyes settle over Rita Skeeter's disgruntled expression and he smiles at her with the kind of smug triumph that he hasn't felt in ages. This isn't just another match he's won.  No.  This is a mayor battle in the relentless war he's been waging against the public's perception of his Prince as a cold, unfeeling man and he's just won it, fair and square.  He can see it in the journalist's sour expression, in the shocked disbelief that is beginning to appear in each and every single face that looks back at him with stunned bewilderment, and can't help but thank his lucky stars for Severus' unusually open show of concerned affection.

This is the break he's been waiting for.  The one action that will make all those who've been constantly disparaging Severus' aloofness falter at long last.  This is the moment that will turn the tide of resentment that their relationship has been gathering so far into something that may one day grow into actual acceptance and he can not help but sigh with sheer contentment as he acknowledges Skeeter with a small dip of his head and watches her lips tighten with the sour lack of grace of the painfully defeated.

When his focus returns to their table his concerns about the silence that surrounds them and the constant scrutiny of the other patrons has deserted him altogether and he smiles at his friends brilliantly, allowing Hermione to engage him in small talk while Ron sits there and stares at Severus with that hysterically funny bewildered look on his face while his Prince blatantly ignores the attention his actions have gathered from the crowd and continues eating his meal with the undeniable elegance that defines him.  Carefully cutting every morsel of food with almost military precision before spearing it into his fork and bringing it primly to his thin lips at regular intervals, chewing it for a few seconds before repeating the entire process until everyone around them eventually re-focuses back on their own  meals and there's nothing but blessed peace surrounding them.

  
 


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19.**

  

Harry wakes to the urgent pinging of his floo connection and blinks dazedly up at the white ceiling, smiling goofily at the remnants of the pleasant dream he'd been enjoying before being so rudely interrupted by whoever has decided to ruin his peaceful Saturday morning at such ungodly hour.

The Floo pings once more out in his living room and this time the sound is loud enough to bring a frown to his sleep-slackened features.  His right hand shots out towards the bedside table, searching blindly for his glasses even as he throws his legs out to the side, bringing himself to a wobbly seating position while groaning in sleepy misery under his breath.

The third obnoxious ping propels him away from the mattress with a vague sense of unformed worry settling in the pit of his stomach, as his fuzzy mind finally makes the connection between the obnoxiously early hour and the fact that nobody in their right mind, least of all any of the very limited number of people who have his private floo address, would be calling him at this time unless there's some sort of emergency.

His frown deepens as he kneels in front of the fireplace and comes face to face with a grim faced Ron who doesn't waste even a second in explaining what the hell is going on before asking him point blank:  
“Is Severus there with you, Harry?”

The mild worry that has been gnawing lazily at his gut turns into instant, heart-pounding dread in the next second and he moves instinctively forwards, coming so very close to the green-tinged flames that he can feel their heat trying to singe the very tips of his hopelessly messy fringe.  
“Of course he's not here, Ron.  Why are you even asking me such a thing?  You know better than anyone that Severus spends every Saturday morning at the Apothecary.”

His best friend's clear blue eyes become so shadowed and dejected upon hearing his response that Harry's anxiousness climbs higher even before he notices the way Ron's Adam's apple moves a bit too forcefully as he takes the gulping swallow that precedes his now desperately needed explanation:  
“That's the thing, mate.  He's not there.  I've just got a call from the auror detail that's on duty at the shop today and they tell me the place is still on lock down.  They've tried knocking on the door, but nobody's answered so far and they're concerned because it's not like Snape to take the morning off without letting someone know.”

“I can't understand why they're causing all this ruckus.  Severus and I often go out on Saturday mornings and they've never called you before when he showed up late.  It's not as if the lab is a proper customer-based apothecary, Ron.  Severus can make up for however long he takes off at some other point in the day without having that impact on his business in any way whatsoever.”

Ron fidgets from side to side and looks right past Harry's shoulder, avoiding eye contact with a slightly annoyed flush that instantly puts the other man on edge.  
“I'm worried about the git, OK?  My aurors called me with their report because it's routine to pass the information along whenever something unusual happens on an open case.  Severus' absences have always been reported to me, Harry.”

“But they've never bothered you before so what's going on this time, Ron?  What aren't you telling me?”

Solemn blue eyes pin him to the spot with a stare that's so full of pity that Harry's heart skips a beat even before he hears the last words he wants anyone to tell him this early in the morning and definitely never in relation to his wary beloved:  
“You've got a problem, Harry.  A really huge one.  And I'm afraid that it may prove to be the straw that broke the camel's back when it comes to your relationship with Severus.  Skeeter's latest article came out this morning and it's bad, mate.  It's more than just bad.  It's actually so horrible that it'd have broken my bloody heart if I was in your git's shoes, so I'm freaking out right now on your behalf."  
  
"I'm sorry, but you're not making any sense, Ron. "   
  
“Pay attention, Harry!  I've been trying my very best to find that bloody bastard for the best part of an hour and the fact that I haven't managed to get hold of him is getting on my nerves.  He's not there with you and Ginny says he's not at Malfoy's.  He's not in his shop and the address we've got for his house guides us to a patch of wind-blown weeds in the middle of bloody North Ronaldsay, and no, that is not a joke, either.  There's a Merlin forsaken island called exactly that up in the Orkneys, so don't give me grief over how well the ridiculous name suits me, OK?  The thing is that his place is under Fidelius, so I can't even find it without Draco's help and he's refusing to let me in on the grounds that he can sense that Snape is not there.”

The longer Ron's explanation gets the more anxious Harry becomes, as every word shakes off just a little more sleep from his still reeling mind to paint a dishearteningly dark picture of growing panic and looming disaster.  
“How can her article be that bad?  She was at the restaurant last night.  I saw her, Ron, and she saw us too.  There's absolutely no way that she could have turned what happened into something horrible enough to force Severus into hiding.  That's just not his style, and he's put up with her bullshit so far without batting a single eyelash.”

His childhood friend takes so long to answer him that each and every one of the small hairs at the back of Harry's neck begins to stand on end.  
“She changed tactics and decided to hit the man below the belt, Harry.  Her article is titled 'Why Our Savior Is Courting Disaster' and it's basically a comparison between Severus Snape and every single other lover you've ever been associated with.  There are pictures, mate, and I don't mean one or two.  No.  There are hundreds of them in some sort of album-like expose and she picked professional shots of every single guy, except your git.  They all look like gorgeous, dark-haired Lockhart wannabees while Severus' picture shows him ashen faced and skeletal-thin, snarling at the aurors on the day of his trial.”

Harry's heart crumbles to dust inside his suddenly constricted chest and his green eyes start burning with the unbearable fire of unshed tears as the extent the damage that bitch may have caused to their budding relationship slams into his solar plexus with the strength of a boxer's punch.  
“No.  Oh, no.  Please tell me you're joking, Ron.”

“It gets even worse, Harry.  She's put a lot of care into picking both the moments she used in her comparisons and the photos that accompany them to portray you as a man who values physical beauty and a warm, touchy-feely personality in all his lovers.  There's an entire spread of shots where your past flames are holding your hand, touching your cheek or simply dancing so close to you that they could very well have been human-shaped extensions of your body, yet she's picked the ones where you and Severus are shown walking side by side through Diagon Alley without so much as brushing each others' sleeves.   
  
“She ends up implying that you're courting disaster on two fronts, first because it's obvious to anyone who knows you that Severus is a far cry from the men you usually go for and second because he's an ugly, old and unpopular walking disaster himself.  One who's never managed to develop and maintain a single romantic relationship with anyone and, therefore, will never be able to keep your interest in the long run, even if he tries.  Then she despairs about the fact that a despicable pariah's need for affection is already dragging your reputation through the mud by association while the man responsible for it clings like a pathetic fool to a relationship that's obviously doomed to failure, forcing the entire world to look on, unable to do anything to stop either of you and save you from the inevitable crash that will eventually destroy you.”

“I'm going to kill that bug!”  Harry swears, feeling so enraged by now that his magic lashes out wildly, making the window panes rattle ominously inside their wooden frames.

“Hey, you've got to calm down, mate.  We'll get her for this.  I'll even help you, I swear.  There is already a public uproar about her article coming from some of the people who were actually at the restaurant last night.  Everybody there saw the same thing I saw, Harry.  And what I saw wasn't a disaster at all.  What I saw was love being both given and returned.  Severus' actions last night earned him the approval of everyone present, so you guys have some support for the very first time since your news hit the press.  That's why she did this, can't you see?  Skeeter was there, too.  She realized that her hate-filled campaign against your relationship was pretty much doomed and decided to sabotage it by trampling Severus' already weakened self-confidence into the ground.”

“She's not getting away with it, Ron. There's no way I'm letting that bitch tear us apart.”

“That's the spirit, mate.  Now all we have to do is figure out where a crushed Severus Snape would have gone to lick his wounds in peace and make sure he understands that you couldn't care any less about the length of his nose or how awful he looks when he snarls at the people who annoy him.  The man can make you shine like a twinkling star with a single touch, Harry.  I saw him do it with my own eyes, for Merlin's sake.  None of the gorgeous Adonis' you've dated in the past managed to make you glow in any shape or form, so that's the argument that they were better than him dead in the water, right there.  I'd be willing to say that to his pasty face if the git doesn't believe you, mate.”

Harry's painfully dry throat closes with sheer emotion upon hearing Ron's determined offer of help.  His friends have always been willing to accept his affection towards Severus, but this sort of impassioned support is something new.  Something that doesn't resemble their former genuine but slightly hesitant desire to assist.  This is his best mate, his almost brother, being finally 100% convinced about the rightness of Harry's love for their former professor, and that change means everything to Harry.  Because if Ron can accept them this wholeheartedly so easily after seeing them together only once, then the rest of their world will certainly follow when given the same chance.

“I think I know where he is.  He'd have never gone to Draco over this, Ron.  He sees his godson like a father sees a son, he'd have never wanted to appear weak in front of him.  No.  He's gone back to his first properly paternal role model.  Back to the one man who stood by him through thick and thin and treated him consistently like the son he never had.  I'm pretty sure that he's gone to Hogwarts.  He's gone to Dumbledore's grave.”

On the other side of the fire Ron smacks his forehead with the flat of his palm and rolls his blue eyes in obvious self-disgust.   
“I can't believe I didn't think of that on my own!  I'll send a Patronus to the headmistress, asking her to confirm if he's there, then.”

“No.  Let me deal with this by myself, Ron.  You're not officially searching for him, are you?  You've been doing this for me and, now that I know what's been going on, I can take over and fix it.”

“I'm doing it for him too, mate.  I must confess that I've never agreed wholeheartedly with your decision to court such harsh, hermit-like man, but last night's dinner changed everything for me.  I've finally caught a glimpse of the loving creature you've been raving about for so long and it was like a revelation, Harry.  I can't honestly understand why I never saw it before.  Bloody hell... that man is perfect for you.  He really is.  And you are perfect for him, too.  I don't want anyone to convince him otherwise, just as I finally realized the goddamned truth.  That would be worse than a shame, mate.  It'd be a fucking disaster and OMG, tell the bastard that I'm going to kill him now in the most painful way I can imagine because he's just made me paraphrase Rita-Bloody-Skeeter.”

Harry laughsat his friend's horrified face before disconnecting the call.  He gets dressed to go with two sharp flicks of his wand before taking a deep breath and Accioing his copy of the Prophet, dropping down on the couch to read the foul expose word for word.  Although he'd known exactly what to expect, nothing could have prepared him for the impact of seeing Severus so harshly compared to the rest of his former lovers in such an obviously biased article.  Sheer dread settles in his gut, dries the back of his throat to dessert-like levels of parchedness and numbs every though in his head until he becomes nothing short of a sluggish mound of terrified resignation and frustrated outrage.

Apparating to Hogsmeade is done almost instinctively and the climb up to Dumbledore's grave does absolutely nothing to help him marshal his thoughts together into some sort of sensible argument. So by the time he's cleared the slight curve in the path that hides his destination from both the main road and Hogwarts itself he's become a shaking mass of limbs that's running on nothing but stress, sheer terror and stubborn determination.

Emerald green eyes settle over the dark haired object of his affections and he sighs softly.  Allowing his breath to hitch with the overwhelming relief of knowing that he's able to predict his beloved's behavior with relative accuracy.   
“Ron asked me to tell you that he's going to kill you very slowly for the fright you just gave him.  His aurors called him when you didn't show up at the shop and he's been looking for you ever since.”

Severus jumps in shock and turns his head slightly around, looking towards him over a bony shoulder.  Inky black eyes clash with shadowed green and the Earth simply stops turning while they stare at each other, trying to read their counterpart's thoughts in the thickening silence.

“He saw the article, then.”  Is all that Severus offers and the fact that he doesn't seem inclined to ask if Harry's seen it too, or how he's reacted to it, makes the seeker's already churning stomach plummet all the way down to the ground.

“I saw it too.  And I'm going to do what I've promised myself I'd never do when it comes to that annoying bug.  I'm going to break a deal I made with her a long time ago and make sure she can't use her little secret to ruin any more lives the way she's trying to ruin mine.  It's time for Rita Skeeter to find out exactly how it feels to have someone callously expose your precious secrets to everyone's derision.”

Severus doesn't react to his words in any visible way.  He just sits there, gazing distractedly towards the rooftops of Hogwarts, seemingly intent in counting every fucking gray colored roof tile he can see over the copse of trees that separates the white grave he's sitting on from the school he'd once directed.

“Don't let her do this to us, Severus.  It was just an article.  An ugly, petty one that was crafted very skillfully with the sole purpose of hurting you.”

“I already know that, Harry.”

The Gryffindor's rigidly held shoulders sag at that.  Young face showing incipient relief even as the same sort of instinctive wariness that once helped him win the war tells him not to start celebrating his victory just yet.  
“Do you?  You don't look like a man who's decided to ignore that despicable pack of lies.”

“But she didn't actually lie, did she?  She used pictures and time-limes and a cleverly crafted assessment of your likes and dislikes in men to prove a very simple point.”

“No.  That's just—No, Severus.  Rita Skeeter has no fucking idea of what the hell I like or don't like when it comes to my partners, and I'm not going to stand here and let you give her that much power without hearing me first.”

“And what is there that you can possibly say?  I know you like dark haired, slender men.  You told me that yourself and now I've seen undeniable proof of it in Wizarding Technicolor.  I believed you when you told me that I'm your type and, after seeing that dammed article, only a blind idiot will dare to deny that I meet every requirement, but... physical attributes like height, general build and coloring do not make a relationship, Harry, and that's were all similarities between those men and me come to an abrupt end.”

“They end there for the same reason that led to the failure of those hooks ups.  None of them were _you_ and I was trying to replace you, Severus.  I've told you this a dozen times before, my Prince.  I though you were straight.  I saw no point in mooning over you.  I was trying my very best to find somebody else to take your place, but I couldn't.  I just... _couldn't._ ”

“How could you have been trying to replace me when not a single one of them look anything like me?  They are goddamned supermodels, Harry.  And I—I...  Look at me!  I'm no charming Byronic hero.  I can not compete with the sort of physical perfection you're drawn to, for Merlin's sake!”

“But that's the point, don't you see?  You don't have to compete with anyone.  You need to get it into your head that you're not the one who was contending against them for my affection.  _They_ were contending against _you, Severus,_ and not a single one of them could match you.”

Severus flinches as if Harry's words have slapped him across the face and the crumpled copy of the Prophet that had been hidden in the folds of his dark robes falls from his lap, landing in the dirt between them like a silent accusation that poisons everything they've built so far with its brightly colored photograph spread, turning the meager distance that still separates them into an insurmountable abyss that Harry doesn't know how to bridge.   
“Don't do this to us, please.  We've been doing brilliantly together.  Everything is finally falling into place with our relationship and there's nothing whatsoever wrong with us as a couple.”  He finally begs helplessly, looking right into Severus' wounded eyes and cursing Rita Skeeter all the way to hell and back.

“That's not exactly true, is it?  You've been siting in my lab day after day, forcing yourself to inhale noxious fumes that you have no need to inhale while the world goes on without you.  Ignoring what everyone else is saying won't make their point any less valid, Harry.  Even the blind can see that you can do so much better than me and, although I believe you when you claim that I am the partner you want, I just can't wrap my mind around the concept.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm an old, ugly curmudgeon who brings you nothing but bad press and endless isolation.  That's why!  You are young.  Fit.  Rich.  A lauded hero...  You are every gay man's wet dream and you should be spending your time somewhere more appealing than the dark and dungeony basement of an old potions laboratory at the edge of Diagon Alley.”

Startled green eyes focus on him with a widened sort of surprise and the puzzled look that their owner has been wearing freezes for a small second before crumbling into dust, wiped out of existence by the rather annoyed frown that is now beginning to take over the entirety of the Savior's lovely features.  
“You are not a curmudgeon, least of all an old and ugly one, and your lab may be dark and dungeony but it's also so _you_ that I find it comforting to be there.  I don't want to be anywhere else, OK?  I've done plenty of partying all over the place already and it hasn't brought me the kind of joy I feel just siting quietly in your lab watching you brew, Severus.”

“Harry, listen to me...”

“No.  Oh, no.  I'm done listening to this bullshit already.  Now it's my turn to say my piece and you're going to pay very close attention to every single word I say, got it?”

“I...”

“Hush!  If I wanted an entertaining guy with a penchant for adventure I'd have found myself one.  I've known you for years, Severus. I knew you were the retiring sort when my heart chose you and it didn't make a difference.  I realized ages ago that I'd end up spending inordinately large amounts of time locked in a dark lab with you, if we ever got together, and I've made my peace with that, my Prince.”

Severus swallows the unwelcome lump that has decided to take residence in the middle of his throat and takes a deep breath.  His hands have begun to tremble with the strength of his agitation and, no matter how hard he tries, he can not still their shaking.  Harry's eyes are boring right into his own with a mixture of determined stubbornness and such wounded look of betrayal that he stiffens with the guilt of knowing himself to be far too insecure to match this young man's fearless affection.

“You must be getting tired of telling me the same thing over and over, Harry.  I'm sorry if it sounds to you like I doubt your professed feelings when I do nothing of the sort.  I'm sorry to be so thoroughly undeserving of your regard that even a rag like the Prophet sounds dammed right whenever it despairs your choices, but it is undeniable that you are far too loving for the likes of me, nyingdu-la.  Skeeter is right about this, Harry.  I'm too cold and undemonstrative for you.  I'm not only unbearably aloof but also a god-dammed disaster when it comes to physical intimacy.  You're going through all this trouble for my sake and I haven't even been able to go beyond mere kissing.  I...”

“Hey, hey, stop it right there, Severus.  Just—stop it, please.  I'm begging you.”  Harry's agitated plea halts the Slytherin mid-sentence and he barely has enough time to blink before the Gryffindor launches himself forwards, approaching him in a flurry of strong arms, delicately tender hands and devastatingly gentle understanding.

Gorgeous emerald eyes settle over his pale features as Harry kneels before him, leaning on the heels of his ratty trainers in order to embrace him loosely around the waist.  Time stretches and stills, becoming absolutely endless and Severus can't do anything to slow down the dizzying whirl of stray thoughts and undefined longing that his mind has suddenly become.  He feels both oddly bereft and profoundly anchored at the same time.  He's trying very hard to adjust to the unbearable intimacy of having Harry so close after the terrible newspaper debacle made him honestly believe that he had no right to experience this sweet bliss ever again.  He's struggling to cope with the overwhelming relief he feels at having the Gryffindor here, so obviously willing to hold him and be held by him in return.  So obviously craving more of _this_ , whatever this may turn out to be.

“I hate to hear Skeeter's poisonous words come out of your mouth, my love.  I don't come to you day after day expecting you to turn into someone else.  I've always known how very formal you are and I've never expected you to ravish me openly for the entire world to see.”

“But I don't ravish you at all, Harry.  I don't ravish you even in private.  Look at us!  We've been talking for almost forty minutes and this is the closest we've come to one another.  I don't understand why you haven't walked away from me already.  You've got to be frustrated with my prudish reticence.  I know you must be, any other man your age would have grown restless already and you're not that different from the rest of us, mere mortals, no matter how loudly your crazy fans insist on screaming the opposite.”

Harry stiffens from head to toes and sits back in his haunches, studying him through deceptively calm eyes while his right hand keeps on tracing soothing patterns of small, intricate circles on his robe-covered flank.  
“I desire you a great deal, Severus, and although I don't particularly enjoy having the suspicion that you don't really see me as a sexual object, the truth is that physical frustration alone won't drive me away from you.  You need to get it into your head that I actually LOVE you.  I realize that you don't have much experience with the concept, but the fact that I feel this way about you means that I'm perfectly willing to wait for sex.   
  
“There's no one else on Earth who can replace you either in my bed or in my life.  I don't want to be caressed into orgasm by a hot and randy stranger. I want—No.  I need _you_ to be the one who makes me fall apart.  Physical release will not ease the ache of loneliness that has been eating me alive for years.  Only love will do that, my Prince.  And I love no one but you.”

“Harry...”

“No.  listen to me, please.  I know that you think the Prophet is right about this, but that's just not true. You are not cold at all, Severus.  You are not 'hard' and 'as unfeeling as a granite statue'.  You are not a despicable murderer, or a charmless curmudgeon or a walking disaster.  You are the most clever, loyal and courageous man I have ever met and no breathtakingly gorgeous supermodel can compete with you when it comes right down to it.”

“Being brave doesn't make me good partner material, Harry.  Courage alone won't sustain this relationship for long.  I'm a prudish cold fish with a Thestral carriage crammed full to burst with intimacy issues and you know it.”

Harry laughs a bit desperately and looks right into his eyes with something so akin to panic that Severus' breath freezes in his lungs.  
“I know nothing of the sort.  You're not as detached as Skeeter likes to paint you and I hate to see you agreeing with her ridiculous assessment of your character.  You came back to England, back to all this misery for Draco, Severus.  You could have remained in Europe but you didn't.  You love others in your own way and there's nothing wrong with that.   
  
“Everyone likes to condemn you because you don't look at me with stars in your eyes and hang on my every word like a brainless little groupie but no one has ever bothered to ask me whether I enjoy that attitude or not.  No one has given me the chance to tell them that I like your lack of hero-worship because nobody really wants to find out that I'm grateful for the fact that you force me to work harder to be noticed.  You make me earn every single second of attention that you give me, instead of gifting it to me as if it were my birthright.  You keep me grounded and make me feel normal.  You inspire me to do better, to be better, to remember who I really am, no matter what anybody else wants to believe and that's something far more valuable to me than the 'warm' affection of a hundred sycophants.”

Severus feels suddenly cold despite the warming bubble that he'd cast to keep the cold air from freezing him into an icicle.  A very unpleasantshiver runs down the entire length of his spine and he can't control the instant rigidity that takes over his body, turning him into what feels like a solid plank of wood in the blink of an eye.   
“So this isn't really about me.  You just need someone who challenges you, Harry.  I can't be the only man out there who is able to do that.”

Harry frowns as soon as his senses register the stiffening of his prince's lanky body but does not release him at all.  He continues to embrace that slender waist loosely, caressing Severus' flank gently with a kind of disarming patience that the slytherin finds simply impossible to resist.   
“Love is not a war, Severus.  I didn't pick you because I think you're a challenge.  I thought you were straight, remember?  I tried to forget you with every fiber of determination I posses.  I made a bunch of lists detailing all the reasons why a relationship between us would never work.  I hooked up with all those other men on purpose and attempted to force you out of my heart by hook or crook.  If there had been even the slightest chance that my feelings for you were based on some inexplicable desire to be challenged I would have managed to forget you.”

“But you couldn't.”

“That's right: I couldn't.  And after a while I didn't want to do it, anyway.  I know you find this hard to believe, but there is nothing wrong with you as a partner.  You are a beautiful human being, my Prince.  No one knows that better than me, since I spent a veritable eternity trying to deny the fact to no avail.  My love for you isn't the unbelievable miracle that the Prophet likes to claim, Severus.  The truly inexplicable thing here is not how you managed to snare me, but how did you get to reach your forty-fifth birthday without being literally hounded by rabid hordes of admirers.”

Severus snorts inelegantly.  
“Now I know you're having me on, Potter.  I lack the flirty sort of charm that attracts besotted fools.  I'd never be able to snare the interest of a single one, let alone an entire horde of them.  Don't get me wrong: I appreciate your effort in trying to convince me of the contrary, but the truth is that I'm nowhere near good enough for you, Harry.  You deserve so much better.”

“I'm honestly fed up of people telling me that.  What the hell gives everyone the right to believe themselves bloody experts on what I deserve?”  The Gryffindor growls, utterly vexed.  “I'm a sportsman instead of an auror or a politician or a bloody economist and I happen to be happy with that choice, all right?  I'm also gay instead of properly heterosexual and yes, I understand that means there will never be an entire gaggle of little heroic 'mini-mes' running all over the place, unless I decide to do the 'right' thing and marry some willing witch whom I'll never be able to love just to impregnate her with my children but, hey, I happen to be happy with that decision, too.”

“Harry, I wasn't trying to imply...”

“Yes, you were.  But you are not the only one who likes to do this, Severus, so you don't need to feel guilty about it.  Everyone likes to play the ridiculous game of let's-decide-Harry-Potter's-life-for-him.  But let me tell you something that I probably don't say out loud as much as I should: whatever the hell all of you think that Harry Potter, the glorious Savior of the Wizarding World, should do or have in his life will probably never match any of the choices that Harry, the simple man of flesh and blood who carries that unnervingly revered mask, will actually make.

“I'm never going to live up to some ridiculous expectations of what my future should look like, no matter how well-intentioned they may be.  I'm fully aware that everyone thinks I should have a boyfriend who sings Opera, shits diamonds and cooks better than the elves of Hogwarts, but I wouldn't be happy with such paragon, Severus.  He wouldn't be better for me in any way even if I found him.  In fact he'd make my life absolutely miserable because I.  Am.  In.  Love.  With.  YOU _!_ ”

Severus blinks in the wake of Harry's impassioned rant, feeling so absolutely stunned by the irreverent nature of the seeker's miffed assertions that he's struggling to come up with a proper answer to them.  
“I've never been the kind of man who enjoys directing other people's lives, Harry, but sometimes public expectations have a point and, in this case, that point is particularly accurate.  You deserve better than this.  You deserve better than me and probably better than the average Opera-singing, diamond-defecating companion, too.”

Harry looks hurt beyond words.  His lovely features become as pale as candle wax and his lips compress into an awful, thin line of heartbroken disappointment.   
“Why?  Why do I deserve better?  Why am I too good for real people?  Why should I have to put up with the shenanigans of some phony Mr. perfect when I want the honesty that comes from someone who isn't actually immaculate and will never pretend to be?”

Severus flounders for a few seconds, both unable and unwilling to clarify his reasons for believing what almost every single other member of their society believes too.  
“Because you've been through enough already.  You had an awful childhood and your school years were marked by the grief of loss and the horror of war.  You never had a chance to be properly happy and it's time you get the best end of the stick.”

Harry's gorgeous green eyes soften with tenderness and the small smile he directs his way is both loving and slightly sad.  
“You've been through enough already, too.  You had an equally awful childhood and your schooling days were marked by the grief of losing your best friend to Hogwarts' house system and the horror of being bullied by one of the most resourceful groups of miscreants the school has ever seen.  You went through the war not once, but twice, and you did it in a position that isolated you from your own side and pushed you deeper into the fold of Voldemort's inner circle.  I'd say you deserve to be happy more than anyone else.  It's time you get the best end of the stick, too, my love.”

Severus freezes upon hearing such strange assessment of his terribly dark past.  He's never even considered their situations to be anything alike and having Harry link them together so brazenly has managed to disconcert him something fierce.  
“But, unlike you, I've always been dark.  I chose the wrong side of the war of my own free will, Harry.  Your mother died because I didn't bother to hide the wording of the prophecy from the Dark Lord.  I've murdered, tortured and allowed the most heinous acts you can imagine to take place before me.  I've...”

“Yes.  You have.  And I'll always be sorry that you had to.  I can not even begin to imagine the kind of strength necessary to go through all that and still remain sane.”

“It didn't take strength.  It took cowardice.  I could have saved at least one of those poor souls but I was far more concerned with saving my own skin.  That's nothing to be proud of, nyingdu-la.  I'm not the lovely man you believe me to be.  I'm a... ”

“Survivor.  And a warrior. You're the most loyal of allies.  Let me tell you right now that we'll never see eye to eye when it comes to this, sweetheart, so don't bother wasting your breath trying to convince me to be afraid of the dark monster you believe yourself to be. You acted like the Slytherin you are and that was precisely what we all needed at the time.  If you'd tried to save anyone you'd have died yourself and we would have lost our only source of viable information regarding the Dark Lord's plans.  
  
“You saved more lives with your supposed cowardice than you ever condemned.  Hell, you won us the bloody war, Severus.  You could have told that bastard that you'd never disarmed Dumbledore to save your own life in the shack, but you didn't.  You let him try to kill you just to keep him convinced that he had the Elder Wand under his control when you knew, _you knew,_ that it wasn't true _.”_

Severus lowers his gaze towards the floor, feeling suddenly uncomfortable in the peaceful setting that surrounds them and brings up his shaking hands to rub his spindly arms back and forth in a gesture that brims with crystal clear discomfort.  
“You sound just like Albus.  Next, you'll tell me that I acted for the Greater Good, too.”

Harry's hands settle over his and their fingers entwine in a gesture of silent support as those searching green eyes seek and tangle with his own dark and wounded stare.   
“You did and you know it.  You have the Order of Merlin to prove it.”

The potioneer's throat constricts to a small and narrow pipe that can't possibly carry enough air to keep him alive and his gut twists into knots even as he growls:  
“I don't want to talk about this anymore.  The war has nothing whatsoever to do with the problem we're facing and you've dragged us both through this miserable conversation just to avoid having to confront the plain and simple truth.”

Harry edges forwards almost forcefully, propping his forearms atop Severus' bony knees in a restless and nervous gesture.  
“The war is a part of our past that we can not hide.  That horror will always be there. It is shaping not only how we see each other but also everyone's expectations of us.  The Savior and the spy... it sounds like the bad title of a corny novel, doesn't it?  But that's precisely how everyone will see us.  The last thing we need is to have you join forces with the masses in their self-righteous outrage at my choice of companion.”

Severus stiffens with indignation:  
“I'm not trying to...”

“Yes, you are.  You're allowing your own insecurities to grow tenfold, nurtured by the unreasonable public dislike that surrounds us at the moment.  You are retreating behind your masks even as we speak because we are growing ever closer to one another and you've allowed your low self-esteem to convince you that I'm going to wake up one of these days and find you wanting.  You are afraid, so very afraid, of what giving into what your heart is starting to feel will do to you, because every bloody bastard you've ever loved threw you to the side without a second thought the moment the going got tough, and your head is screaming at you that I'm going to do the same.  Isn't that right, my Prince?”

Inky black eyes widen to capacity and Severus' already pale visage turns impossibly white in the blink of an eye.  
“Harry, I...”

“Do you love me, Severus?”

The question hangs between them like an executioner's noose.  It dangles right before the Slytherin's eyes, filling him with the kind of terror that he's never truly been given the chance to experience before.  Harry's eyes are harsh and somber, but they're shimmering with a delicate film of bright tears that speaks of love and longing.  Of a fear that's at least as great -if not greater- than his own.  Of the need to be reassured and supported and cherished.  The desperate desire to be told that he's not the only one feeling what he feels.  That they are both equally invested in this madness that keeps hurting them almost as much as it brings them unparalleled joy.

“I think I do.”  Severus finally whispers and the universe doesn't collapse on the spot.  The Earth doesn't stop turning.  His heart doesn't shrivel up and die, forced to watch the object of his affections turn his back on him in disgust.  On the contrary, Harry whoops with effervescent relief and all but leaps into his arms, throwing them both haphazardly to the ground as a result of his sudden motion.

They end up laughing like slightly crazy teenagers in the grass beside Albus' white grave as Harry wrestles with him until he's managed to flatten Severus' back against the cold, dewy ground.  The ecstatic young man looms over him delicately, gazing down at him like a man looks at a treasure and those eyes that are so green, so honest, so fiercely loving rake his pale features with undeniable devotion even as their owner pleads:  
“Say it, my Prince, please, just... say it.  Let me hear the words I've waited so long to hear.  Make me the happiest man on this planet, even though there are no candles around and no fancy dinner. Even though this isn't the setting I always imagined we'd be in when this miracle happened.”

Severus laughs self-consciously, lifting a trembling hand to brush Harry's messy short fringe away from his gorgeous green eyes.  
“Wouldn't you rather I wait for those candles and that dinner to say the words, then?  We could go out tonight, or I could cook a meal for you.  It's time you set foot on my humble abode, nyingdu-la."   He offers quietly and isn't surprised in the least when his lion shakes his head in unmistakable refusal, leaning trustingly against the potion-tainted fingertips that are still trying to comb through the wild nest of his hair and demanding with enough need to pummel the last remnants of Severus' weakening resistance into submission:  
  
"We can do all of that later, Severus.  This isn't a perfect dream.  This is perfect reality and that always finds a way of becoming far more precious, far more meaningful, than all the carefully staged scenarios my mind could possibly conjure.  Your heart has always sought Dumbledore's approval.  He's loved you, protected you and demanded more from you than anyone ever did and it's time you let him go.  It's only right that he bears witness to the moment when you place your trust in someone else's hands.  Someone who is alive and here and willing to adore you even more than he ever did.  Someone who may never be able to replace him, but can hopefully give you the things he always wanted you to find.  Someone you've decided to call 'the most honored poison of your soul' of your own free will, my Prince."  
  
"So you've finally figured out what nyingdu-la means."  Severus whispers, trying to swallow past the heavy lump that is lodged right in the middle of his throat, despite the fact that he finds the task almost impossible.  His dark eyes fix upon Harry's and he becomes thoroughly snared by the overwhelming affection that is shinning down on him, coming from what seems to be the very depths of the most remarkable young man he's ever met.  
"I love you, Harry Potter.  I love you more than I've ever loved anyone, and that scares me so much that I—I..."   
  
"Hush, Severus.  Hush.  Let's not talk about fear anymore.  Let's just smile and laugh and kiss each other tenderly.  Let's stay like this until our heads forget whatever silly things they are so busy thinking and our hearts have finally managed to shake sense into them and win this battle.  Let's look into each other's eyes, allow our hands to tangle together and simply... be, sweetheart.  Let's allow the love we feel for one another to have this one perfect moment in time.  Let it be born without fear.  Without conditions.  Without shadows.  Let it shine brighter than the sun itself and gain strength from the kind of courage that once led you to rebel against everyone who tried to cage you, my Prince.  Let your own emotions set you free, Severus.  Let them heal you and shelter you and lead you right to me, my love."

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20.**

 

Severus sighs explosively, utterly frustrated by his own nervousness with regards to what amounts to nothing but a small dinner for two.  He's the one who issued the invitation.  The one who insisted it was time for Harry to set foot in his home, at long last.  He's the one who is rushing to get past this particularly pesky milestone in their relationship when he's certain that the brat would wait a veritable eternity for him to feel completely ready.

He knows himself inside out, though.  Knows that he'll never feel ready for this.  Not completely.  Knows that he'll never stop waiting for the other shoe to drop when it comes to personal relationships.   Knows that he stands to lose far more than he's willing to surrender, if he doesn't push himself to suspend all disbelief and take this risk.  Knows that he has to grasp happiness by the scruff of its elusive little neck and force it to remain exactly where it is: right beside him for the first time in his memory.

Harry, bless his generous soul, had tried to give him an out.  Told him that he wouldn't force him to honor an invitation he'd issued in a moment of weakness.  Said they had time: all the time in the world, in fact, to move forwards with their relationship now that they both have confessed their feelings.  But he hadn't wanted to hear a single word against this plan, so here he is now: having gotten his cake through his own stubborn determination to have it and attempting to convince himself to eat it out of sheer, pig-headed pride.

He should be feeling more calm and collected than he is.  He should be feeling safe, secure and in control. This is his turf.  His home.  His safe haven.  This is the place where no one he hasn't invited himself will ever be able to reach him.  This is his last remaining bastion.  His back-up refuge, and he has willingly exposed it's location to Harry Potter, of all people.   
_'Pull yourself together, Severus.  Harry will be here any second now.'_   He scolds himself mentally, re-arranging his mother's sparkling silver cutlery for the hundredth time and tilting the pristine white napkins just so.

The little pessimistic goblin who lives inside his head and delights in cautioning his already paranoid mind against anything even remotely frivolous or pleasurable has been disparaging his insistence in honoring this dinner invitation for the last two days in a row and, although he's trying his very best to ignore it and remain... positive... about it all, the truth is that he's absolutely terrified that Harry will think his home too small.  Too drafty.  Too isolated.  Too ugly, poor, drab, or any other of the myriad adjectives that he's perfectly aware others often use to describe both himself and his every possession.

“Harry won't do such a thing.  He loves me.” Severus whispers into the oppressive silence, just to hear the reassuring words surround him, and all but flinches when his pesky inner gobbling scoffs: ' _He loves me...  bah!  You're letting that brat turn you into a_ _goggle-eyed_ _fool!  He's twenty years younger than you are and richer than Croesus.  He's going to take a single look at this dump and start running for the hills, you idiot!'_

“Enough!”

_'What kind of brainless nincompoop would settle for this—for you, when he could have any of those attractive young blokes he used to hang around with back on his arm in less time than it'd take you to blink?  Most of those guys would fit better into the glamorous world of the savior than you ever will.  They all knew exactly how to smile for the cameras and charm the public at large. They knew how...'_

“He didn't want any of them then, though.  He wants _me,_ just me.  I am enough for him, no matter how unsuitable I may seem to everyone else.”

_'You are a fool if you believe that particularly ridiculous tall tale.  A stupid, romantic fo...'_

“Severus?  Are you in there?”  Harry's voice brings his unpleasant inner thoughts to a complete halt and he closes his dark eyes with grateful relief.  Reassured, despite himself, by the enthusiastic sound of the seeker's door-rattling knock.  That isn't the kind of noise a man makes when attempting to gain entry into a place where he doesn't want to be.  No.  Harry _wants_ to be here.  This dinner date isn't going to be a disaster.  He knows it in his heart of hearts.  He just has to ignore his cripplingly pessimistic brain and let his growing trust in the Gryffindor take over.

A second knock flits through his silent house, forcing him to open his eyes once again and straighten his spine.  He takes a single deep breath and attempts to compose whatever traitorous expression may be plastered in his face so that, by the time he opens the door to a ruffled looking Harry, he's the most picture perfect image of calm confidence he can possibly fake.

Harry smiles and pushes inside in one go, hiding Severus' weak attempt at a welcoming smile behind the huge flower bouquet that he presses into his startled hands.   
“There!  I thought about bringing wine and discarded that idea at the last second.  You're not much of a drinker anyway, and I'd rather we enjoy the evening without heavy booze in sight.  Flowers seemed the best bet, since you love them so, Severus, although if you feel it's too girly a token I can always bring you chocolate next time.”

Severus blinks, utterly bewildered, and feels his tense shoulders relax upon catching sight of his lion's wide-eyed gaze and recognizing the terrified expression so clearly reflected within it as the one he, himself, had been trying so hard to hide a mere second ago.  
“You are nervous.”

Harry shrugs his formally-clad shoulders and looks down towards the uncharacteristically polished dressy shoes he's wearing.  
“Of course I am.”

“And you're dressed to impress.” Severus whispers softly, thoroughly unable to keep the delighted statement to himself, despite his best efforts.

Harry lifts his head back up then, glancing at him with eyes that positively gleam in the shadowy darkness of the hallway.  He looks bright and hopeful and loving.  He's the best possible representation of Severus' own ideal of the perfect, charming gentleman come to life.   
“This is the first time I've set foot in your home, my Prince, I want this evening to go smoothly.  I want it to be amazing. I want it to be... memorable.”

Severus' unreasonable nerves all but die at that second and he smiles as wholeheartedly as he is capable of, holding onto his huge flower bouquet and gazing stupidly at his love while neither of them seems able to find enough sense to do anything beyond standing here, in the doorway, gaping at each other like a pair of moonstruck calves.  He feels rather juvenile and happy, conscious of the fact that he wants to kiss the brat until they both are too breathless to continue and not experiencing a single shred of shame over such longing.  He doesn't even have the slightest doubt regarding the enthusiasm with which his kiss will be received, if he were to bend his neck down just so and...

Soft lips open under his own: cold and chapped by the fiercely windy air of the early evening, but yielding to his caress with a warmth that sets his pounding blood on fire. He pulls back after a second, reluctantly surrendering to the heavy flutter of wild moths that's attempting to turn his stomach into lead, and licks the rim of his kiss-swollen mouth in a gesture of such bewildered disbelief at his own spontaneous action that Harry breaks into a sudden fit of giggles.  
“You are nervous, too.  Aren't you?” is all the brat offers in response to the dark glare he throws his way and he shakes his head from left to right, sighing with lighthearted self-deprecation even as he admits:

“Guilty as charged, I'm afraid.  It's been ages since the last time I had anyone over.”

“I'm not going to complain about that anytime soon, Severus.  I'd rather you're rusty with lack of practice than having to contend with the awful jealousy of wondering how many guys you cook for in any given week.”

“You give my questionable charms far more credit than they deserve, if you honestly believe I could have been entertaining gentlemen on a weekly basis, Harry.  I have always struggled to snare sexual partners and the idea that anyone would have me outside a drunken one-night stand was preposterous to me before you decided to barge into my life, and turned my every preconception about such things on its head.”

Quidditch-callused fingertips trace the prominent lines of a slowly blushing cheekbone with the kind of reverence than only Harry has ever bestowed upon him, and Severus holds onto his kiss-crushed flowers like a drowning sailor holds onto a flimsy piece of drifting wood.  
“I'm glad that you found the courage you needed to let me show you better, then.  I could have forced myself to be content with that first night, Severus, but now the idea of never having this—of never having _you_ like this is the stuff of my worst nightmares.  You've given me _heaven_ , my love.  I would have failed to reach the level of happiness I've been blessed with since that night, if you'd walked away."

The moment hangs: precious and fragile like newly formed ice.  Like a gently trembling dewdrop dangling from the edge of a new leaf, or the flimsy mirage of a barely remembered sweet dream.  Severus swallows past the thick lump that is trying to interfere with his ability to speak and moves slightly away from the still opened door, motioning his attractive young guest inside his humble abode and locking them finally together within the comforting safety of his fire-warmed refuge.  
“Welcome to my home, Harry.  I hope you don't find it... wanting.”

Green eyes rake the softly lit hallway, taking in the soothing marine-themed paintings that hang on the white-washed walls, the hand-woven rug that covers the aged floorboards they're standing on and the slightly ajar door that opens onto the sparsely decorated, but comfortably furnished, sitting room where he spends most of his time reading and caring for his beloved plants.  This is a place Severus finds both soothing and deeply personal.  A space in which he's poured so much of his own soul that he feels virtually naked as he stands quietly beside Harry, allowing the brat to make of it what he will.  
“Are you kidding?  I've wanted to see your place for ages.  You've got no idea of how many times I've tried to picture it in my head over the years.  It's better than I dared to imagine, Severus.  This is all so... _you_... that I can't honestly understand how my head failed so abysmally to come up with it.”

“I...  thank you.” He mumbles softly, at a loss for what else to say or how to move the conversation along to slightly less awkward waters.  It's becoming abundantly clear to him that they are both on edge, which is something he isn't used to dealing with at all.  Harry often throws his boundless Gryffindor boldness into every situation, bridging life's usual pitfalls with the kind of flair that tends to smooth every wrinkle and soothe every discomfort, yet he's failing to do so right here, right now.  Probably second-guessing everything he's thinking of saying and allowing the atmosphere between them to be tainted by the kind of nervous uncertainty he's usually hell-bent on hiding.

“Aren't you going to put those flowers in water?  Neville said they'd last about a month with proper care.  He's been trying to develop the kind of stalk that absorbs twice the amount of fluid as a regular one to help increase the life-shelf of cut blooms.”

Severus looks rather desperately into clearly anxious green eyes and mumbles a strangled response:  
“Yes.  I've been following Mr. Longbottom's research very closely.  Narcissa is most impressed by his conclusions and Pomona's constant bragging about her star pupil's talent has started to irritate even her most fervent fellow Herbologists.”

“You mean that Draco can't stand the thought of being outsmarted by his old Gryffindor rival, don't you?  It's rather entertaining to listen to him huffing like a spoiled brat about how Nev's not the only one who did well out of that particular generation of Hogwarts teachers' pets.  He earned his mastery in half the time it took everyone else to do it, after all, and Ginny isn't shy about pointing out how he's the only potioneer to have been personally trained by the greatest potions master in all of Europe.”

Severus shrugs reedy shoulders and turns towards his small kitchen, concentrating on rummaging inside his cupboards for a vase wide enough to accommodate the lush bouquet.   
“I wouldn't call myself the greatest potion master in Europe.  I honestly don't know where that idiotic title came from.  I'm far too young to have been placed on such unreasonably high pedestal.  There are still a million things I haven't managed to achieve when it comes to my craft, Harry.”

“That's the attitude that has made you as great as you are when it comes to potions, sweetheart.  Even I recognize the respectful awe that colors the voice of most apothecary clerks when they sell the stuff you make.  The bottles that carry your lab's shield are always the first ones to go, regardless of the fact that they tend to be more expensive.”

“Better ingredients drive the product's price higher.  I have no other option but to charge more than the others just to break even.  I'm not trying to swindle anyone. I'm...”

“Hey, hey, stop that, sweetheart, please.  I wasn't criticizing your prizing policies.  I was trying to make a different point and you've jumped straight to the wrong conclusion, Severus.”

“Forgive me, I...”  Severus shakes his head, struggling with his instinctive need to explain himself further. To snap out or even walk away from the entire discussion. He takes a single deep breath and focuses on filling the vase he's chosen with water, forcing himself to concentrate all of his attention into arranging Harry's unexpected token of affection carefully into it and letting everything else go.  “No one has ever given me flowers before.  I know you took me to that greenhouse up North, but that wasn't the same.  This is uncharted territory for me, Harry, and I—I'm terrified of doing something so stupid that I'll end up ruining everything.”

Harry sighs, runs restless hands over the messy dark mop atop his head and comes up closer, looking right at him with the most disarming expression in his beautiful green eyes:  
“We are both being very stupid about this.  I mean...  yeah.  You've finally allowed me inside your home and it is a big deal indeed, but...  we've done bigger than this already.  We sailed through our first date and the second.  We survived all those awful Prophet articles.  We've gone out to dinner in public with my friends and made it through about a hundred little fights.  We can do this too, Severus.  We can live through a private dinner for two in the comfy nest you've created for yourself.  All we need to do is relax and trust each other.  I'm not going anywhere and you're not going to mess this.  We're going to eat whatever is making this room smell so bloody amazing and then we'll chat the rest of the evening away on that comfy couch of yours.  We may even share a kiss or two before I finally leave...  This is going to be perfect, my prince.  You'll see.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21.**

  
“Have you really read all these books?  There's an awful lot of them”  Harry asks, staring at the packed shelves that frame his walls with something that looks suspiciously like wide-eyed awe.

Severus chuckles under his breath, allowing his relaxed upper body to sink against the soft cushions of his fireside couch and lifts contented dark eyes to stare lovingly at his books.  
“I'd be picking one of them right about now if you haven't come to dinner.  They've been my faithful companions for a very long time.  I've found...  refuge... from my daily troubles within their beloved pages.  They've kept me sane and helped me recover after the war ended.  Some of them have offered me the kind of wisdom I would have never learned for myself otherwise. I—my books are precious to me, Harry."

The Gryffindor nods understandingly, placing his empty bowl of Treacle Tart on the small coffee table that rests directly in front of the sofa they've decided to retire to with their pudding.  Green eyes travel around the room once again, taking in the crammed shelves, the lush green plants, the potion-related paraphernalia dotted all over the place, the aged rug that Albus gifted him long ago, the gleaming trophies he's won through nothing but hard work, the small pot of red ink with which he still crosses out whatever irritates him the most on his craft-related periodicals...

“I love it here, Severus.  Sitting in this room feels like I've curled right in the middle of your heart.  This place shows you just as you are, like the kitchen at the Burrow, or Dumbledore's crazy office.”

“Did you really just compared my intellectually-driven personality to the most unholy set of crazy Gryffindors out there?  I'm not sure that's a great compliment, Harry, even though I've got no doubt that you meant it as one.”

Harry laughs, places a playful right hand on Severus' bony knee and whispers teasingly.  
“I know for a fact that you're not as much of a bookish cold-fish as you'd have me believe, you, fiend.  You can act crazily enough when you want to. You are the most Gryffindor-like Slytherin I've ever met, my Prince.”

“Harry, I...”  Severus’ eyes drop down towards Harry's capable hand, which is still curled around his knee.  He feels the warmth that emanates from that slightly calloused palm all the way down to his toes and forgets the half-hearted protest he's been thinking about voicing as soon as he hears the brat's agitated gasp of dawning realization.  Harry's fingertips clench reflexively around his knee, crumpling the dark cloth of his formal trousers slightly as the moment stretches and the silence grows tense.  Severus finds himself utterly unable to look away from that hand and those wrinkles.  From those slowly whitening knuckles.  From that tempting, slightly tanned skin that will drive him literally mad if he doesn't find the strength to stand up right now.

“If you're trying to talk yourself into ignoring the thoughts that are crossing your mind in favor of leaping off this couch as if it were on fire, let me beg you not to do it. Please.”

Severus lifts shamed dark eyes to look right into a slightly blushing face that shows nothing but fierce hunger.  
“I didn't bring you here to do this, Harry.  I had honorable intentions all along and I think it’d be better to…”

“I want you.  I've wanted you every second of every day since the first night we slept together.  I love you and you love me back. There is nothing wrong with letting things go further, sweetheart.”

Something daring, something utterly sweet and needy and powerfully passionate awakens in Severus at that moment, but he still hesitates on account of too many years of alcohol-driven sexual encounters.  He's never fallen into bed with anyone while being as stone-cold sober as he's right now, and the idea of taking such unprecedented risk with Harry, of all people, terrifies him more than anything.  
“I'm not ready for it, Harry.  I—this isn't how I usually have sex.  I often need...”

“Booze?  Darkness?  A stranger?  How can any of that feel safer to you than _this_?  You know I'd never hurt you, don't you?”

Severus swallows with utter discomfort and turns his head away.  Unable to force himself to confront the disappointment he's certain must be painting dark shadows in Harry's lovely eyes.  
“Don't look away from me, please.  You're making me feel like a monster.  I'm not trying to push you into doing something you're not ready for, Severus.  I'm just trying to understand what's going on.”  Harry's hand lifts away from his knee then, traveling confidently upwards until it ghosts over his shoulder in a wordless attempt to encourage him to face him once again.  Severus feels a wave of shame so strong at his own ridiculous behavior that he can't bear not to yield, so he turns reluctantly around to face this remarkable youth who is generous enough, patient enough, to want him despite his Hogwarts-sized basket of hang-ups.

“I want you too, Harry.  Never doubt that.  It's just that I—I...  I can't cope with the idea of baring myself to you yet.  Not while I'm in my right mind.  Not after seeing with my own eyes the kind of blokes you usually go for.  I'm nothing like them at all.  They were gorgeous, all of them, while I am utterly...  ugly.”

Harry loses all traces of color.  His lips part as if to offer some sort of answer but no sound comes out of them.  His green eyes become lackluster, shattered and heavy with the kind of sorrow that Severus would have given a great deal to remove from them at once.  
“You realize that I've already seen you naked, don't you?”  The Gryffindor finally asks, curling a trembling right hand around the nape of his neck and holding him still.  Captive.  Tethered to a conversation he'd rather avoid completely.

“I remember most of that very hazily, _nyingdu-la_.  I was drunk.  I'd have never found the courage to take my clothes off in front of you, if I'd been in my right mind.”

“I remember all of it very clearly, though.  And I've never been more turned on by anyone in my entire life.  You are not ugly at all, Severus.  You are beautiful inside and out.”

“That's easy for you to say, but...”

“It's not _easy_.  It's the _truth_.”

Severus closes his dark eyes, trapped as he is by Harry's delicate hold onto his neck, and thoroughly unable to keep looking into the green eyes that bore into his own, trying to search the very depths of his gaze like twin probes sent to map the darkest corners of his hastily pounding heart.

“Severus?”  Harry calls him softly when he doesn't respond, addressing him with the kind of worried tone that somehow manages to break something reticent and frightened that's been hiding deep within him for years.  He arches his neck backwards, purposely pushing his pale flesh more firmly into Harry's callused palm and opens anxious black eyes, begging the brat to help him, to take over, without daring to actually utter a single word out loud.

“Oh, sweetheart...”  His lion whispers and curls tender fingertips around the base of his skull a bit more firmly, dragging his head closer, his torso nearer and his mouth downwards.  Setting them both on a path that has no other option but to end in the softest of all kisses.

Warm lips brush against his own, sweet with the flavor of the Treacle Tart he'd cooked just for the brat, and gentle, oh-so-gentle.  Severus sighs and allows himself to melt into the loving caress, ignoring every thought trying to talk him out of doing this, surrendering only to his own wants and needs.  To his desire to trust Harry.

The seeker smiles against his lower lip as soon as he opens his mouth, allowing himself to be entered in this small yet thoroughly disarming way, and making them both groan roughly in unison.  Strong, yet delicate fingertips shift around to frame his face, tilting it slightly to the left and holding it fast like a treasure or a priceless work of art.

“Harry...”  He mumbles as soon as his swelling mouth is set free and all but swallows his own tongue when the brat shushes him quietly, tracing his reddening ear with his lips in a move that makes Severus' already thrumming pulse pound like a war drum.

Soothing kisses rain on his eyelids and cheeks.  On his brow, his nose and the slackened corner of his mouth.  On the side of his neck and all along the hem of his starched collar.  They don't come to a stop at all when they reach the prominent lump of his Adam's apple but settle over it, as if determined to thoroughly adore that one spot, mouthing the paper-thin skin and pulling on it gently with teeth that seem to be willing to devour him one little nibble at a time.  Severus growls deep in his throat and arches his neck backwards, opening the vulnerable spot further to his partner's insistent ministrations without any hesitation.  Without any fear.   
  
“You are so beautiful like this...”  Harry grumbles, lost in passion, and the conviction that colors his lust-roughened voice heals something fragile, something utterly wounded inside Severus.

“I want this.  I want _you_ , Harry.”  He says out loud and laughs wildly when the brat runs disbelieving greedy hands over his neck and shoulders, over his heaving chest, like a kid whose stern parent has just given him green light to gorge himself with candy.

“I don't know where to start.  I want all of you at once, my Prince. I want...”

Severus arches more fully into him, lifting his narrow hips off the couch and allowing the straight lines of his slender body to fit themselves to Harry's far more muscular frame.  The Gryffindor gasps and shivers.  His bright eyes darken with sheer lust and rake over him hungrily even as a trembling pair of strong, masculine arms curl around him, holding him securely against a washboard stomach with an avarice that sets his blood on fire.  
“Take what you want.  Anything.  Everything.  I'm begging you, _nyingdu-la._ ”

The seeker rears backwards then. Feverish green eyes boring into his, struggling to bring himself into some form of control.  
“Are you sure?  We don't have to go all the way.  I'll be happy enough with this, Severus.  I don't want to make you feel coher...”

“Will you stop trying to be so maddeningly chivalrous?  I want you to fuck me into this couch, Potter.  I want you to do it right now, for Merlin's sake!”

Harry jumps, clearly startled, and then starts chuckling low in his throat, planting those smiling lips back on the skin of his neck as if he's never, ever, planning to remove them.  Severus' world reduces to that single mouth, that playful tongue, the ten branding fingertips restlessly moving over every inch of him and the thousand tingling nerve-endings they are so very deftly playing to the most ancient tune of them all.

Hasty hands claw at the buttons that keep his white shirt closed, ripping some of them off and working around the rest with flattering impatience.  The soft cloth parts without resistance, leaving the skin it kept hidden openly exposed to the darkened gaze that seeks it out so greedily.   Playful teeth ghost over his exposed shoulder, following the prominent line of his clavicle and zeroing in on the hollow at the base of his throat.  Severus arches up into the open-mouthed kiss that's trying to consume him and they both cry out sharply, thoroughly overwhelmed by a lust that makes them blind and deaf to everything except one another.

Soon they are both equally naked.  Both gasping.  Feverish.  Breathless and impossibly hard.  Both desperate for further intimacy, and Severus looks right into Harry's glazed eyes and parts his legs in silent invitation, exposing himself dirtily and with a wantonness that would have shamed him if he'd bestowed it upon any other man, but that feels nothing short of... right... when he offers it to Harry.

His lion stares at him, apparently unable to form a coherent thought.  He looks shocked, awed, delighted beyond words, and the groan that rents the air as soon as he allows himself to breathe once again betrays such potent lust that it turns Severus' already quivering muscles to jelly, flattening his back into the couch's cushions as if he were a rag-doll.  Or a spineless, mindless creature.  Or a lump born of the most primal of needs.  A beast who can't do anything at all that doesn't involve lying back with a soft sigh and wait impatiently for his conqueror to stalk closer and...  claim... him.

Harry kneels between his too pale, hairy knees in the next second and sets warm, callused fingers on the back of his quivering thighs, rubbing painfully slow, soothing, circles into them.  
“Is there any lube around, Severus?  I realize you weren't expecting...”

Dark amusement colors the bark of laughter the Slytherin releases in response and Harry halts, frowns for a second, and ends up blushing charmingly as soon as he catches his partner's rueful look towards the small drawer of the coffee table.  
“This is where you wank, isn't it?  You do it right here, on this sofa.  You pleasure yourself into orgasm while the firelight paints all this snow-white skin a gorgeous golden color...”

Severus bites his lower lip but ends up groaning at the picture Harry is so breathlessly describing, anyway.  He can't understand how the brat is managing to do it, but he can't help the thought that he sounds utterly beautiful when referred to in that awed, reverent tone.  While having his quivering flank caressed by a thoroughly worshiping hand and watching his Gryffindor's face contort with unmistakable need as he opens the bottle of lube and begins to coat those Quidditch-callused fingers with the slightly viscous substance.

The seeker grins as he hovers over him, plants a single kiss on the very tip of his long nose and nudges his tight entrance with a careful digit.  Severus doesn't dare to close his eyes, doesn't dare to turn his face away or even breathe.  He can only gaze right back into those loving green eyes and thank Merlin for having found him worthy of Harry.  
“I love you.  I love you.  I love you...”   He whispers and all but shatters into a million joyful shards when his own personal savior repeats those words in his ear.

Harry finger-fucks him carefully, but with a relentlessness that doesn't let him ignore the fact that he's being utterly possessed by a man who has every intention of crawling right into his soul.  The world shifts and blurs and whirls in and out of focus as he yields to his lover's slow, deliberate thrusts, letting himself be taken in every way.  Gasping and pleading and undulating his straining hips wantonly to the maddeningly slow rhythm set first by Harry's fingers and then by his hot, hard, cock.

He lays contentedly there: long hair tangling around his flushed face, black eyes pierced by green emerald, sweaty pale back flattened to his own couch's cushions while the savior himself seems determined to spear him right into orgasm, untouched, and feels nothing but a wild and exhilarating sense of  freedom.  He's awake, alive and sober.  He's beloved, desired, wanted.  He has finally become the man he's always wanted to become, and he couldn't have done so without his Harry...

The thought shatters whatever is left of his resistance, launching him into an endless abyss of white-hot pleasure and he gasps under the weight of his Gryffindor's body.  Harry pushes hard into him, riding his quivering hole furiously, clearly adamant to get himself milked by the pleasure-fueled tremors he so gloriously brought forth.  Seconds later he gasps breathlessly and stiffens above Severus, filling his still fluttering channel with the most intimate of essences before collapsing atop him.

Severus grunts and blinks dazedly towards the ceiling, unable to conjure a single logical thought or pronounce one measly word.  Spiky tresses of messy dark hair tickle the underside of his jaw and his lion's moist, warm breath puffs against the side of his neck, making him shiver with over-stimulation.

“I sincerely hope you're not planning on kicking me out after that.”  Harry whispers softly into the silence and Severus would have smacked him on the head for daring to say such idiotic thing at a moment like this, if he hadn't caught the undercurrent of genuine worry that had probably prompted the comment.

“You, my dear _nyingdu-la_ , will now have the dubious honor of being the first Gryffindor to set foot inside my bedroom.”  He deadpans and decides that all is well with his world when his lover giggles like a teenage girl and has the actual balls to whoop out loud.

“Yes.  Oh, yes.  Yessss!  I've made it!  There's no way I'll ever achieve anything greater than what I've accomplished tonight, then!”

Severus laughs, entertained by Harry's ridiculous antics despite himself and whacks him on the side of the head for his disrespecting idiocy anyway, just because he can.  
“Oh, shut up, you, silly lion!  It'd be in your best interest to learn the fine art of quitting while you are ahead, now that you're stuck with me, Harry.”

The seeker wiggles his brows, teasingly playful, but his words are vow-serious and fierce when he answers him quietly:  
“I will never quit when it comes to you, Severus.  Not while I'm behind and definitely not while I'm ahead.  _That_ is a promise, my love.”

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22.**

**  
A/N: This Story is now officially complete.**

****** **

The sitting room of Harry's fancy flat is crowded.  Noisy.  Perfect.  
Despite the rocky beginning of their relationship and how many times the public and their own very different personalities attempted to break them apart along the way, Severus Snape is still here: sitting bang in the center of the fire-warmed room while his lover's extensive circle of friends and family lavish him with attention on what used to be his most dreaded night of the year.

He is turning 46 years old today and he feels calm and relaxed.  Happy.  At peace.  Utterly content.  Tonight he has absolutely no reason to be anywhere but here.  Has no reason to feel miserable for the life he's been blessed with.  Has no need of hide in the darkest corner of the most infamous gay bar in Knocturn Alley while he plies himself blind with cheap Firewhisky in the hopes of gathering enough courage to bag himself a bed-partner who will help him feel less lonely.

Tonight he is here instead: still his own acerbic, ugly self, but not so thoroughly alone any longer.  He's somebody's entire world.  No longer a forgotten, forgettable pariah, but a dearly beloved partner.  A respected friend.  Another small cog in the giant family the Weasleys have created for themselves, and a giant one in the diminutive one he's spent the last few months building with Harry.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart.”  His lion mumbles in his ear, kissing his pale cheek in front of all and sundry for the hundredth time this evening, and he turns pleased dark eyes towards those beloved young features.  
  
“It is. I'm having a good time, despite the surprise party and the over-abundant Gryffindor exuberance.  I...  Thank you, Harry.  I've got no words to explain how much this means to me.”

Harry smiles and sits calmly beside him, ignoring the soft, delighted gasps that start rippling through the room as soon as he settles down.  Severus frowns and turns around, looking at the gathered crowd with puzzled curiosity, but he's almost immediately distracted by the gentle pressure oh his lover's lightly stubbled jaw against the back of his neck.   
“What the hell are you doing, Harry?  Everyone is looking at us!”  He whispers quietly, lowering his head just low enough to allow his long hair to shadow his features and making sure to speak as softly as he knows how, in order to hide the fact that he's berating his misbehaving lion in front of his own guests.

Harry laughs, kisses the skin above his collar very softly and ruffles his hair with the uninhibited fondness that he's never hesitated to shower over him.  
“They all know something you don't, sweetheart.  They know I've chosen tonight to do something that's been coming for a while.  Something I once told you I wanted to do.  Something that I hope you're finally ready for.”

The words are soft and breathy, falling against the exposed nape of his neck in a series of small puffs that make him shiver and he turns slowly around, forcing the brat to lean backwards and give him breathing space.  Forcing himself to look him in the eye.  
“What are you talking about?”  He inquires, thoroughly intrigued,and does not imagine for a second that his life is about to change even more than it has already changed.  Doesn't understand that they've reached another milestone, one that Harry has given him all these months to prepare himself for.

Harry drops onto one knee in the next instant and Severus' first instinct is to try holding onto him.  To save him from a fall that never was.  To...  rescue... him.  The teary sigh Molly exhales has him freezing in mid motion, turning his dark head towards their rapt audience once again, and noticing for the first time the women's soft-eyed expression, the men's obvious discomfort.  
“Harry, what...?”

“A year ago, today, I embarked in the greatest adventure of them all, Severus.  I was desperately in love with you and I wanted a single chance to show you how I felt.  I've spent every second since trying to do exactly that.  I sincerely hope I have succeeded.”

“You have.  You know that already.”

Harry grins brightly then and it isn't until that second that Severus becomes aware of how very tense his lover's shoulders look.  Of how intently those beautiful green eyes are staring at him, trying to read his expression with inexplicable anxiety.  
“What on Earth is going on?  Why are you looking so worr...”

“I have one last birthday gift for you, my love.  This is something that I'm offering you freely.  Something I have your godson's permission to give you.  Something that my family, the Weasleys, have wholeheartedly sanctioned.”

Severus' eyes widen then, instantly recognizing the introductory sentences of a betrothal plea.  
“N _yingdu-la_...”

Trembling hands raise towards his own, grabbing his potion-tainted fingertips and holding onto them for dear life, giving them a reassuring squish that, miraculously, grounds them both.  
“I have loved you for many years now.  I have done so as openly as I've been able to in recent months.  I've courted your once wounded heart into loving me, and now I feel it's time to make that love official.”

Those words shake him to the core, despite the fact that he'd known something along those lines had to follow Harry's carefully worded mention of family acceptance.  He sits there, looking into his lover's eyes with the kind of thunderstruck expression that he is thoroughly aware everyone is going to be teasing him about for many years to come and tracks Harry's hand as it abandons his own to search inside the breast pocket of the uncharacteristically formal robe he'd insisted so hard on wearing.

A second later there is a slim and narrow box in his lion's palm and Severus knows exactly what it contains.  He looks on, utterly shocked, as the lid is lifted away and he is finally presented with the one token he'd never in a million years imagined he'd receive.  He should have known better, though.  Harry has never learned to settle for pie when he could have the entire cake.

His dark gaze is drawn towards the pristine white glove that rests within the box.  He doesn't need to look towards the seams to know that his Harry would have charmed the cloth to withstand the wear and tear so often associated with his craft.  He should be able to prepare potion ingredients and brew to his heart's content while wearing it on his left hand.  He should be able to feel the different textures of his herbs and other materials without any trouble.  He has no logical reason to refuse wearing this glove at all times for the one year formal betrothals require these things to be worn.  This ball is firmly on his court.  And he hadn't been expecting it.

His throat is way too parched to answer, his heart is pounding like a wild drum in his chest and he's conscious that a most unbecoming blush has begun to invade the usual paleness of his narrow face.  He can feel all eyes on him as he struggles with the strength of his emotions, but the only thing that matters is the expression of utter adoration that turns Harry's gorgeous green gaze into bright and hopeful jewels.

His right hand moves as if of its own accord, raising towards his lion's messy hair to play with those famous raven-colored bangs in the kind of thoroughly intimate gesture that he wouldn't have ever made if he wasn't so rattled.  His love smiles reassuringly then and pushes that marked forehead against the tips of his fingers, seeking further contact. Severus swallows thickly and his hand slips into full on petting mode, carding through those thick, black tresses as their gazes become tangled.

“Harry, I...”

“Don't tell me to learn to quit while I'm ahead, please.  You know I'm never going to give up.  Not on the idea of having more of you, Severus.  It's been a year since our first night together and we've made it this far.  We are both happy.  We're both still here, together, despite everything.  There is no reason why we shouldn't follow tradition and enter a formal courtship.”

“Formal courtship ends in marriage, brat.  If I pick that glove off its box and commit myself to wear it for a year, everyone is going to expect you to make an honest man out of me in twelve months time.”

“I'm fully aware of that.  I'm the one asking for your hand.  I'm the one begging you to give me the honor of wearing this glove as a symbol that you're no longer available for courtship.  I'm the one pleading with you on bended knee for the chance to replace this ceremonial glove with a wedding band this time next year.  I love you and you love me back.  I will never marry at all, unless I marry you.  This is the future I want, Severus.”

Dark eyes close then as if in slow motion, allowing their public-shy owner to hide their soft expression from most riveted witnesses.  The potion-tainted fingers of his trembling left hand unfurl from the tight fist they'd formed as it curled protectively in his lap and he doesn't need to make a single move further before his Harry takes over.  A soft gasp reaches his ears a mere second before familiar calloused hands clasp his sweaty one, cradling it between them like the most beloved treasure for a minute or two.  Then the softest of all kisses lands on his knuckles, startling him into opening his eyes once again and acknowledge this strange world in which it is possible for him to have found love and companionship.  To have the right to accept the blessings of true friendship, professional respect, and the chance to spend his lifetime beside the most generous and caring young man he's ever known.

“Severus Snape: will you accept this glove as a token of my affection?  Will you allow me to place it on your hand and vow before these witnesses to wear it for a year?  Will you agree to become my lawfully wedded husband on your forty seventh birthday, my love?”

“Why my birthday, Harry?  Why have you picked today, of all days, to do this?”

The seeker smiles as if he'd been expecting the question and doesn't fidget on his knees or look impatiently towards the still opened box that he must have placed on the coffee table behind him in order to free those Quidditch-callussed hands to grab hold of his own.  
“You must know by now that I consider your birthday to be my lucky day, Severus.  This is when you were born. It's also when we first came together and, although things didn't go as smoothly as I'd hoped initially, they started us on the road that led us here.  I see no reason to tempt fate by choosing another date.  Your birthday has always favored me, my Prince, and I'm hoping it'll continue to do so long into the future.”

“You realize that I'm going to become the most despised man in the Wizarding World as soon as I accept this?”

“I don't think you will.  No one has attacked our relationship in months, Severus.”

“That's because nobody ever expected me to have the gall to marry you.”  He mumbles under his breath and smiles despite himself when Harry's face splits into the brightest grin he's worn all year as the brat all but bounces on his knee.

“Does that mean you'll let me put this glove on you?”

“Did you ever doubted that I would?  I'm here because I love you, Harry.  You are not the only one who wants this future.”

A soft and teary sigh breaks the reverent silence that surrounds them and Severus knows Molly Weasley must be clutching her soppy handkerchief against her ample bosom, looking upon them with motherly pride and planning their wedding all the way down to the color of the tablecloths already.  He can't be bothered by that at the moment anyway, not when all of his attention is focused on the joyful creature who seems determined to put that glove on his hand as soon as humanly possible.

The silky white cloth slides easily over his skin, wrapping around his long and bony fingers like a warm, living shield.  Magic tickles him from nails to wrist, sinking beneath cloth and flesh as soon as Harry closes the small fastening that will keep the glove in place and they both watch it glow a soft golden color before flashing out of existence, knowing that it won't come back into being until a year from now.  Severus flexes his newly-gloved fingers, alternatively closing and opening his hand with soft-eyed curiosity.  He can see the glove on his skin, but his movements are completely unrestrained and his palm is able to feel the slightly roughened touch of Harry's own when the seeker catches hold of his slender limb and, turning it around reverently, places the most fervent of all kisses over his white-clothed knuckles before whispering roughly:  
“You are finally mine, my love.”

Severus laughs then, and the sound that breaks the respectful silence around them seems too pure, too soft, too gentle to have come out of his mouth.  It's a delicate, lighthearted twinkle of a breath.  A smile that can be heard as well as seen.  The kind of sound that only the most blessed people in the world can ever make.  It's the words happily-ever-after come to life and a promise of forever turned sweet melody.  It's the joy that fills every nook and cranny of his tall and reedy body settling deeply inside his heart as he agrees with his brat softly, freely acknowledging the most unbelievable miracle of all:   
 “Yes.  I'm yours.  I'm well and truly yours.  Now you'll have to put up with me forever, n _yingdu-la._ ”

A bold and cheeky grin blooms across Harry's lips.  He looks breathtakingly gorgeous.  All enthusiasm and dimples and the 100 watt smile that would help him conquer the world, if he ever bothers to flash it around more often than he does.  His seeker straightens up high enough to give him a peck on the lips before leaning in even closer, until he's finally able to whisper softly in his ear:  
"That is all I've ever wanted, my dear Prince.  That is all I've ever wanted."  
  
  


**The End.  
** ****


End file.
